Rima
by Purupuss
Summary: Time moves on; people move on... But when your world starts imploding around you, can things ever be the same?
1. Chapter 1 - The End

_The end is nigh... But for whom?_

_This is not the sequel to A Quiet Year, rather it's the story I've been working on for a few quiet years.  
_

_I first had the idea back in 2004, but thought that I'd never use it. Then, when it came to writing the sequel I made a start of a couple of chapters before the muse kept on pestering me with this 2004 story. To keep it quiet I wrote that little bit and then got back to the sequel. The muse fed me more of 2004, so I wrote that and went back to the sequel. The muse fed me more of 2004...  
_

_I gave up and decided to write it._

___The title is Rima (Ree-ma) because that means five in Maori. I chose that because there are five Tracy boys, five Thunderbirds, five major rescue events... and this story was supposed to be the fifth in line waiting to be written after the sequel. It's working title was #5, so I've kept that without making it sound like a movie about a robot. _

As usual, thanks to D.C, Quiller, and this time also to Red Hardy for proofing and checking that the Americans sound like Americans. Rima has been proofread so many times that it's a wonder that it hasn't been worn out. Hopefully between the three of us we've obliterated all the typos, but I doubt it. Even last week I managed to find that Lady Penelope was enjoying a "mew" cup of tea. So if you find any mistakes - blame Gordon.

I've decided that as Rima is Purupuss length and you all have a life to live, and because Red Hardy is still ploughing/plowing through it, I'm going to upload every Friday. This may become more frequent if my review withdrawal symptoms becomes too much for me to stand.

Naturally I can claim none of the Tracy clan or their friends as my own; nor Tracy Island, and, of course (as much as I'd love to) none of International Rescue's craft, including the Thunderbirds. Those characters and equipment who are not part of the Thunderbirds canon belong to me.

Please do not post this story in a C2 or any other site without first asking my permission.

:-)_ Purupuss_

* * *

"_Civilisation exists by geological consent, subject to change without notice."_ Will Durant (5/11/1885 – 7/11/1981): Writer, historian and philosopher.

**Chapter 1 – The End**

_Monday 17__th__ October 2072_

"We can't afford to carry on."

John Tracy studied the shocked, bemused, and stunned faces before him and wondered if any of them had expected this.

They probably wouldn't have dreamt it six months ago.

Six months before that moment when they began their slow downward spiral...

They should have known that something was wrong. Jeff Tracy asking for someone to pilot his aeroplane to a meeting in the States should have sent alarm bells ringing. But the Tracy patriarch had said that he needed the time to go over some files, and everyone had accepted the excuse. Scott had flown him to Tracy Industries' headquarters.

The first sign of trouble had been when John had received that frantic call from his elder sibling. To John's ears, tuned to seven years of listening to his brothers' various emotions played out over the airwaves, Scott had sounded frightened, almost panicked: alien emotions in one of the most calm and controlled personalities that John knew.

It wasn't until much later, when things had calmed down somewhat, that John had heard the full story of what had happened. The flight out had been smooth; and, mindful of his father studying in the back of the aeroplane, Scott had kept conversation to a minimum. He'd had no indication that there were any problems. Even upon landing, all had seemed well. He'd stayed in the cabin of the aeroplane to retrieve his father's bags, while Jeff had gone out to talk to the Tracy Industries employee who'd come to the airport to collect his boss.

Scott had glanced out through the cabin window just in time to see Jeff Tracy collapse onto the concrete. By the time Scott had hurdled the cases and thrown himself out of the aeroplane's door and across the tarmac, the airport's paramedics were already on the scene; working on the casualty and keeping everyone superfluous at bay.

Including Jeff Tracy's eldest son and International Rescue's Rescue Coordinator.

John surmised that this was what had really destabilised Scott's mental equilibrium. It wasn't so much the fact that his father had so unexpectedly collapsed and was being given cardiac resuscitation, but that Scott had been rendered redundant and with no control of the situation. All he could do was send his panicked call to the space station: "I think he's had a massive stroke, John!"

It had taken all of John's own self control to stop him from heading down the same frightened path. The many experiences of having been through similar situations with his brothers helped him to remain calm...

But this wasn't a brother. This was his father.

John had relayed the message back down to Earth to a shocked, but supportive Tin-Tin. And it was Tin-Tin who'd been the only one who kept her cool. She'd taken control; dispatching Alan and Virgil, with Brains for support, off to rescue John from Thunderbird Five; at the same time sending Gordon, Mrs Tracy and her own father to support Scott at the hospital. Then, in the intervening hours as she waited for Thunderbird Three's return, she'd arranged rooms at the hotel nearest to the hospital, organised meals to be sent to the family group, and packed everyone's bags. She then set about tidying Jeff Tracy's Tracy Industries affairs as much as she could; cancelling appointments, and handing files over to the appropriate assistants. By the time the crew had arrived back from the space station she was ready to head to the States.

And there they'd waited for hour after seemingly endless hour. Hoping for the best news and dreading the worst.

It wasn't the worst, but it hadn't been the best either. For the first 48 hours Jeff had been kept in a medically induced coma as the doctors sought to limit the damage to his brain.

John remembered the shock he'd felt when the doctor had confirmed Scott's original diagnosis. He couldn't believe it. For his age his father was fit and active. While Jeff Tracy didn't deny himself the odd luxury, he also made a point of taking care of himself. A stroke shouldn't have happened to someone as young and fit as him.

Then the doctor had asked if there was any genetic predisposition towards cerebrovascular attacks in the family, and John had got another shock when his grandmother had confirmed that there was. "Yes, it runs in the family," she'd admitted. "Jeff's grandfather was paralysed because of a stroke. His great-grandfather died of one, as did his great-great-grandfather. His father died in an accident, which I guess is why Jeff never thought of having tests."

"Does this mean that any of us could be susceptible?" Alan had asked.

It was a disquieting thought to realise that any one of the five Tracy boys could be a ticking time bomb, and they all agreed that complete medical examinations were in order...

Once they knew that their father was going to be all right.

But during those first 48 hours they each had to deal with their own demons. Scott had paced up and down in the corridor outside his father's room, still desperate to gain some control over the situation. Virgil had spent the evening pouring his emotions into the hotel's piano. He hadn't stopped when asked to by the management, who were forced to get Grandma to ask him to leave the restaurant. Even this didn't work and eventually Virgil had been physically dragged away by Scott.

Gordon stayed in the hotel pool; swimming lap after lap...

Alan had spent the time holed up in his room being comforted by Tin-Tin.

John remembered trying and failing to search out peace in a patch of starlit sky. All he could find was a little bit of murky darkness in the skies overhead; the stars having been obliterated by light pollution.

No, John reflected. None of them had handled their father's sudden indisposition well...

"John?"

A touch on his shoulder brought him out of his reverie.

"John," Scott repeated. "What do you mean that we can't afford to carry on?"

John stared at the digital surface of the table that the core of International Rescue was seated around. "I mean just what I said. We don't have the money." He pushed at the image of the top piece of paper and it 'slid' across the table until it was in front of his brother. Then he passed copies of the document to Lady Penelope, Parker, Kyrano and his grandmother, before flicking the last three digital papers with less care to his brothers.

"I don't understand," Alan admitted as he looked at his copy of International Rescue's finances. "These numbers look big enough to me."

"Personally we're not in dire straits," John acknowledged. "If we wanted to continue the lifestyle that the world thinks we live, we could, no problem. But we can't afford to keep International Rescue operational."

"It can't be that bad," Virgil challenged.

"You think so? Let me tell you, Virgil, that by the time you've left this room, slid down your chute, chosen the required pod, lowered the cliff face and trundled out to Thunderbird Two's launch pad, you've just spent more money than the GDP of most of our Pacific neighbours. And that's before you've even fired the launch rockets."

Virgil looked shocked. But then, John realised, once again they all did. As if they hadn't considered the costs involved in operating an international rescue organisation.

Maybe they hadn't.

It wasn't as though running the family business, including International Rescue's finances, had been lumped solely onto John's shoulders. Virgil had always been ready to give advice and assist with decisions relating to engineering. Likewise Scott could be counted on for help with things aeronautical, Gordon for anything relating to water, while Alan was the expert with automotive decisions. But it was John, able to comprehend the relationships between trillions of stars with ease, who'd been the most comfortable manipulating a few billion dollars.

Between the five of them they'd managed to keep the Tracy Industries running on an even keel. It was only over the last couple of months that John had become aware of the slow leak.

"If you look here," he highlighted a graph on his financial statement and the result was mirrored on the others' copies, "you'll see how the value of Tracy Industries has dropped."

Gordon's finger traced the line of the graph. "Since Dad had his stroke."

"Yes. As far as the markets are concerned Jeff Tracy IS Tracy Industries. Without a clear leader at the helm, people are wary of dealing with us."

"So, what can we do?" Grandma asked.

John sat back. "I don't know. That's why I've called this meeting, to see if any of you have ideas. How can we raise more money? Throw in any ideas you have, no matter how crazy they seem, and we'll see if we can make some of them work."

"We could sell something?" Tin-Tin suggested.

"That would help in the short term," John agreed. "The question is; what would we sell?"

Scott was flicking through the document. "Our biggest asset is Tracy Island," he noted, "but without Tracy Island we don't have International Rescue."

Gordon was perusing the page detailing operatives' salaries. "We could all take a pay cut," he stated. Then he stared at a number on the page before looking up at his eldest brother. "Is that what you earn?!"

John ignored the side issue. "If none of us were paid, we could keep Thunderbird Four going and not much more. If you turn to page fifteen and start at appendix part one…" John pointed out the relevant section. "You'll find the breakdown of the expenditure required to operate each of our craft."

Parker was staring over his big nose at the even bigger numbers. "'Scuse me, Mister John, but H-I thought Thunderbird Five would be h-a lot more h-economical to run. Since h-it don't h-actually go h-anywhere. H-It says 'ere that h-it's nearly h-as much h-as the other Thunderbirds."

John managed a small smile. "I can see why you'd think that, Parker, but I've factored in other expenses, such as using Thunderbird Three..." Parker frowned and John continued. "Under Thunderbird Three's appendix I've listed how much it costs to use it solely as a rescue vehicle. Thunderbird Five's expenses include using Three as transportation between base and Five for maintenance and upgrades. If Five were still manned the costs would be even higher because we'd have to make regular runs to replenish supplies and change Space Monitors." A note of sadness had crept into his voice and his grandmother gave him a comforting rub on the back. Since Jeff's illness it had been decided to use Thunderbird Five as a relay satellite - sending calls for help directly to Tracy Island. This meant that International Rescue had more operatives available for emergencies and that, should Jeff's health take a turn for the worse, all five of his sons could get to the States in quick time. It also meant that John hadn't stayed in his beloved satellite for months.

"We could always not do space rescues," Gordon suggested and ignored Alan's "Hey!" of complaint. "We hardly ever have any anyway."

"But we have had them!" Alan rebuked. "Remember when we rescued Rick O'Shea?"

Gordon smirked. "Don't tell me that you wouldn't have rather left him on his pirate satellite TV station."

"If we're de-commissioning Thunderbirds because of lack of use, why not Thunderbird Four?" Alan challenged. "It hardly ever gets used. And just the other week you said you were seriously considering going for that underwater research job. If you did that we wouldn't have an aquanaut and wouldn't be able to use Four anyway."

Surprised, all eyes turned to Gordon who looked uncomfortable. "There hadn't been any action for weeks and I was bored," he admitted. "We've had that shipwreck since then. Look..." he added, hoping to divert everyone's attention away from Alan's unwelcome revelation. "Can we cut back on some of our machines' capabilities?"

"Such as?" Scott asked.

"Uh..." Gordon thought for a moment. He glanced across the table. "As an example: FAB1." There was an unintelligible sound from Parker. "It's a huge car. And increased size equals increased fuel consumption. We could chop it in half. Maybe have four wheels instead of six? That would reduce rubber costs too."

"Next thing you'll have Lady Penelope being driven about in a Mini instead of a Rolls Royce," Alan scoffed. "I'm sure that would be much more economical. Or better still. A pink motor scooter! You can't get much more economical than that!"

It was obvious to all that he was joking, but Alan still received a glare from an unimpressed Lady Penelope. "May I remind you boys," her withering stare moved from Alan to Gordon, "FAB1 is my own private vehicle. I pay for all expenses related to its use. You will not 'chop it in half'."

"We're aware that it's yours, Penny," Scott shot his two youngest siblings down with a stare of his own. "The basic idea's sound; we just need to work out where we can put it into practise. Do you have any thoughts, Virg?"

Virgil had been scribbling ideas onto a sheet of digital paper and just as quickly scrubbing them out. He sighed. "Nothing that equates to the millions of dollars that John's talking about."

"Brains?"

Brains had been staring into space, his huge intelligence running through various equations and hypotheses. He gazed at Scott through enormous, solemn, blue-framed eyes. "No."

"Tin-Tin?"

She shook her head. "I am sorry, Scott. Maybe if I had more time to think about it?"

Scott turned his attention back to the lead in this discussion. "How much time have we got, John?"

"Depends," John admitted, "on the type of rescue. If they were water-based ones within a thousand kilometre radius of Tracy Island we could do hundreds. If it was something along the line of the Sunprobe rescue where we used both Thunderbird Three and Thunderbird Two to the limits of their abilities, we'd probably have enough money to be able to scrape through one rescue and one alone. And that's assuming that we don't use Thunderbird One."

Scott made no comment. "Okay. So what other options have we got?"

"Sponsorship?" Gordon suggested.

"Sponsorship?" Tin-Tin queried. "You would be willing to allow businesses to advertise on the side of the Thunderbirds?"

Gordon shrugged. "I don't like the idea," he admitted. "But you've got to admit that we've got a fantastic billboard in the underside of Thunderbird Two. Everyone looks up to watch us arrive..."

"Whoa! No way!" Virgil exclaimed. "We are not painting anything on Thunderbird Two!"

"Why?" Gordon teased. "Don't you want to advertise that hamburger chain? The logo would look great against the green backgr..."

Before Virgil had the chance to formulate a suitable answer, Scott had negated the suggestion. "Sponsorship is out of the question. Besides, do you know of any businesses with the spare cash to sponsor the kind of money that we would require?"

"Tracy Industries?" Alan suggested. "Then people would be rushing to do business with the business that does business with International Rescue, and we'd get the money we need to continue."

"You may as well paint _The_ _Tracy family is International Rescue_ on a Thunderbird," Virgil responded.

"Should you start chargin' for your services?" Parker asked. "User pays."

"Who would we charge?" John asked. "The two little boys we've just rescued from the mine? The family of those boys? The community those children live in? The country the children live in?"

"Maybe not after the rescue, but what about before? As a type of insurance?" Lady Penelope suggested. "Charge each nation in the world a premium; payable so many times a year."

John shook his head. "The poorer nations could never afford to pay their share, leaving the wealthier nations to carry the burden of supporting us."

"Most of 'em could h-afford it," Parker growled.

"True... Until some of their constituents complain about their tax dollars being used to support 'freeloaders' and a new government's elected and decides to withdraw all their support. It leaves us vulnerable."

"I-Instead of individual countries, er, could we ask the World Government to sponsor us?" Brains asked. "They get levies from i-individual nations. Maybe a, er, portion of that could be allocated to International Rescue?"

There was a general murmuring of assent.

Scott frowned. "The problem with requesting monetary help from countries, even if it's through the World Government, is that we'll appear to become political; and if there's one thing Father insisted on, it was that International Rescue is to be free of political influences. We help anyone and everyone. No matter who they are and how much money they've got."

"Plus," John added, "there's always a chance that those funders will decide that they are entitled to have a say in the running of International Rescue. They might try to dictate who we do, or don't, help. Or tie up the purse strings so tightly that we're more hamstrung than we are now... If that's not a mixed metaphor."

Silence fell over the group as each individual tried to come up with a workable solution.

Up till now Kyrano had been silent; listening and thinking about all that had been said, but now he raised his hand. "May I have permission to speak?"

"Of course, Kyrano," Scott replied. "You're as much a part of International Rescue as any of us."

Kyrano bowed his head in a gesture of thanks. "During the past seven years I have observed the sons of Mr Jeff Tracy at their work." His eyes moved from John, to Scott, to Alan, Gordon and finally Virgil. "You have been dedicated to Inter-national Rescue. You have not sought recognition for your labours and have willingly laid down your lives for those of strangers. You have put your hearts and souls into Inter-national Rescue… But I have seen changes."

"Changes?' Lady Penelope looked at him sharply. "What do you mean?"

"No longer do they have the fire in their bellies. No longer do they, as you say, 'champ at the bit' to fly out in their Thunderbirds. When Inter-national Rescue began I saw young men eager to go out and serve. Now, when I hear the alarm of help, I also hear groans of reluctance."

The brothers fidgeted, unable to look at each other or their colleagues.

"I believe that Mr Tracy's money formed the backbone of Inter-national Rescue and his sons the body," Kyrano continued. "But I also believe that Mr Tracy is Inter-national Rescue's heart. While the heart is ailing, the body is weakened. A weakened body is vulnerable to injury and disease. I fear that injury to the body of Inter-national Rescue would kill the heart."

There was silence.

Scott cleared his throat. "So, are you saying, Kyrano, that we shouldn't be asking ourselves how we are going to keep International Rescue going: but whether we should?"

Kyrano inclined his head in assent.

"Well," Scott looked around the group, concentrating on his brothers. "Gordon's gone on record saying that he wouldn't mind a change of scene…"

"I didn't go on record!" Gordon exclaimed, embarrassed by the perceived lack of loyalty. "Alan opened his big mouth!"

"Okay, Gordon, point taken… But what about the rest of us?" Scott looked at each brother in turn. "John? You've had the biggest change to your role in International Rescue since Father's stroke. What do you think?"

"Well, they say a change is as good as a rest…" John paused. "I'm not begrudging having a bigger input into Tracy Industries and I'll admit that I'm enjoying the challenge, even if it's obvious that I'm not in Dad's league. But… If I'm really honest… For me International Rescue is now a 'job', not my 'vocation'. Now, as Kyrano said, I dread hearing this going off…" Pulling the radio receiver that was his direct link with Thunderbird Five off his belt, he placed it on the table before him. "…because it means I'm going to have to interrupt whatever it is I'm doing." He took a deep breath. "I also no longer feel as 'valued' by International Rescue as I was…" There were various exclamations about the table.

"Valued!" Grandma exclaimed. "Of course you're valued, Honey. Whatever do you mean?"

"I mean that my forte is communications and astronomy. While I was on Thunderbird Five I could indulge my interests while International Rescue made use of my communication skills. While I can still use this," he indicated the receiver, "to communicate with anyone in the world who needs us, and I still have the ideas to make improvements to our communications systems; I don't have the time to bring those ideas to life, and International Rescue doesn't seem to need them. It seems to me that my skills are being better utilised by Tracy Industries, and that International Rescue no longer needs me…" He weighed the receiver in his hand and then put it back on his belt.

"We do need you, John," Scott reassured him. "And we appreciate all you're doing to keep Tracy Industries going." He looked down to the other end of the table. "What are your thoughts, Virg?"

Virgil doodled on a blank piece of digital paper. "What are my thoughts?" He hesitated. "I've been thinking that I've flipped an elevator car while a nuclear-powered jet airliner's landed on me; I've been shot down and crash landed; I've been knocked around and knocked out; I've had numerous bumps and scrapes and bruises and so far I've managed to walk away unscathed. I've been lucky. And I've been wondering when my luck's going to run out." He fixed his brothers with a solemn stare. "I've been wondering when _our_ luck's going to run out."

"Haven't we all," Scott agreed. "Gordon? Do you want to say anything?"

"Well, since Alan brought it up," Gordon glared at the offending brother. "I'll admit that I'm not finding International Rescue as fulfilling as I'd hoped. I know that after my accident no one wanted to push me before I was ready; and I appreciate that… But that was nearly ten years ago and I still don't get the action that I expected when Dad first told us about this organisation that he was planning on starting. I knew that there would be few water-based rescues, but… kinda like John, I'm starting to think that my skills would be better used elsewhere."

Scott nodded. "Alan?"

"Uh..." Alan frowned. "It's not something I've considered..." He bit his lip. "I do have things that I want to do. Things I won't contemplate doing while I'm a member of International Rescue." He shot a quick glance towards Tin-Tin. "I'm just not sure that they're a good enough reason to quit."

No one pushed him for further information.

"What about you, Scott?" Virgil asked. "We haven't heard your thoughts."

"There have been times when I've wondered why I bother being part of International Rescue," Scott admitted. "I know that we don't expect payment from those we help, but a word of thanks would be appreciated. But the public seems to expect me to wave a magic wand and work miracles as soon as I arrive at the danger zone, as if it's their god-given right. Then, when I tell them that we've got to wait for Thunderbird Two to arrive, they start yelling at me as if the whole catastrophe's my fault. I mean, I know that's not a good reason to give up, but..." He stopped, aware that he was getting hot under the collar. "It does take away your enthusiasm for the job."

"And then there are all the false alarms we're called out to," Virgil reminded him. "They waste a heck of a lot of time."

"And money," John added.

"Do you get many?" Lady Penelope enquired.

"Many!" Scott gave a bitter laugh. "Too many. Last month some kid had thought it'd be a laugh to call International Rescue out on a wild goose chase. And then what happened when he got caught out?" He threw his hands up in exasperation. "His mother dragged him away by the ear without a word to me. No apology. No thanks. Nothing. She didn't even make the kid apologise... And that's not an isolated incident."

"And then there's the media's response when we don't pull off a miracle," John added grimly. "Believe me; the public expect it of us; whether or not it's humanly possible."

"Yeah." Gordon clenched his fists in frustration. "Remember that newspaper reporter who ripped into us for turning up too late to save that family inside the house that burned down?"

"The local fire brigade turned up before we did," Alan recollected. "And even they were too late. There was no way that we could have done anything."

Grandma huffed. "That report made me so mad! I can understand people wanting International Rescue to help those they care about, but honestly a house fire! International Rescue is there for those who appear to be beyond help, not for minor disasters that the local authorities can deal with!"

In the silence that followed they all tried to rein in their anger.

When he thought they'd had long enough to cool down again, Scott spoke. "Does anyone want to say anything else?"

"Yes." Alan sat up straighter. "We've all got valid reasons for walking away from International Rescue, but I can think of one equally valid reason for keeping it going... Dad." There were nods of agreement from his brothers. "International Rescue was his dream. What would it do to him if we shut it down because of his illness?"

It was his grandmother who responded to his question. "I know that I've been spending most of the last few months with your father, and I haven't spent a lot of time with you boys; but I've noticed the changes in your attitudes towards International Rescue too. And, like Kyrano, I'm worried that you'll become careless. I don't want Jeff upset any more than you do, but I know that if one of you had a serious accident that would upset your father more than if International Rescue ceased operations. He will understand if you make that decision."

Kyrano bowed his head. "Mrs Tracy is correct."

"In that case..." Virgil had drawn a large question mark on his digital paper. "Are we giving serious consideration to shutting down International Rescue?" He pushed home the dot at the bottom.

Scott looked around the group before him before answering. "Yes."

"Then can we take some time to think about it?" Alan asked. "I can't make a decision now."

"I think we all need the time," Scott agreed. "And we're going to need longer than a couple of hours. We'll meet back here this time next week. Agreed?"

They all agreed.

"Let's all hope that International Rescue isn't called out to anything major in the meantime," John muttered as he switched off the digital table.

-I-R-

-F-A-B-

Nurse Georgia smiled at the five young men who approached her station. Then her smile slipped slightly. There was something odd here. The Tracy sons weren't frequent visitors to their father, but when they did visit they were attentive towards the older man. Unlike some visitors who turned up to see the patients, spent a quick five minutes visiting, said they had a few errands to run and that they'd return soon, and then reappeared five minutes before they were due to leave; the Tracys would try to spend every minute possible with their father.

What was really odd was that all five were present. Georgia couldn't remember this happening since the week that Jeff Tracy had been shifted into the long-term care wing of the private hospital. She couldn't even recollect a time when she'd seen two or more of the sons together. Something unusual was definitely happening. Maybe it was something to do with Mrs Tracy having been called away from her son's bedside last week...?

The eldest, Scott, smiled at her; but his smile seemed forced. "Good morning, Georgia. How is he?" he asked.

This was odd too. They always greeted her with the usual pleasantry of asking after her health before they asked after their father. Not that Georgia expected anyone to worry about how she was feeling. In a hospital ward there were people with greater problems than her own. "He's stronger today, Scott. Your grandmother deliberately placed the newspaper out of reach before she left the room and he had to get up and walk across to get it."

Scott smiled again, but Georgia wasn't sure he'd been listening. "Is he strong enough to take some bad news?"

Georgia abandoned all pretence of a smile. "Bad news? Well, yes he is, depending on how bad the news is you're talking about."

"Ah..." Scott Tracy seemed unsure of how to respond. "We've got to tell him that we're going to have to close down one of his pet projects... We know it's going to upset him."

Georgia evaluated her response. "So long as you break it to him gently, he should be all right."

"He might be, but what about us?" Gordon muttered as they walked towards Jeff's room, and Georgia realised that it was the first word that any of Scott's brothers had said. They seemed to be content in letting him take control of the situation... Whatever it was.

Jeff Tracy, lying propped up by a multitude of pillows looked pleased when he saw Scott enter his room. Pleased, then surprised, and finally concerned when he realised that his eldest was followed by Virgil, John, Gordon, and finally, showing some degree of reluctance, Alan. "Wha' y' do' 'ere?"

Grandma stood. "There's not enough room in here for the six of us," she stated. "I'll wait outside." Jeff watched, alarmed, as she squeezed Scott's hand, patted John on the shoulder, and treated her other grandsons to a reassuring smile before walking out the door.

"Wha' 'ron'"

"Father..." Scott pulled up a chair and placed it close to his father's head so he wouldn't have to raise his voice. He looked at the frail, somewhat emaciated man who lay on the bed before him. "We have something we have to tell you."

Jeff looked at his five sons and wished that that horrendous stroke hadn't robbed him of so much of his speech. He wanted to tell them to stop frightening him with their solemn and silent attitudes. "Wha'?"

"We've done our best... And John's been amazing keeping Tracy Industries going..." Scott smiled at John, now seated across the bed. "And we... That's the rest of us... have helped where we could... But..." Scott had always welcomed his role as the leader of his brothers, but this time he wished that someone else had offered to be the one to break the bad news. "We've developed a new admiration for what you've achieved over the years, but... the fact is... we're not as good at business as you... And people... the markets... would rather deal with you than with your sons... or anyone else." He stopped.

Jeff wished that he had the strength in both arms to be able to shake whatever the news was out of his eldest boy.

"We're not in any trouble," Scott waffled, aware that Jeff was getting a wary look that spoke volumes more than any words he was unable to enunciate. "We're all fine, physically and financially..." He managed an unconvincing chuckle. "We're not about to be kicked out into the streets any time soon..."

If Jeff's legs had been strong enough to support him he would have kicked Scott himself to encourage him to spill whatever it was that was troubling them. Either that or he would have liked to have been able to stride out into the corridor to demand that his mother explain what was going on. It had been obvious that she'd known what his sons weren't in any hurry to tell him.

"Everyone's okay... But..."

Jeff held his breath. This was the "but" he'd been waiting for.

Scott took a deep breath. "We can't afford to keep International Rescue going, Father."

"Wha'?"

Scott wasn't sure what reaction he'd expected, but he was sure it wasn't this one. Somehow Jeff managed to meld his weakened face into an expression that was simultaneously accusing, disappointed, shocked, and in denial. "We: and this is a unanimous decision made not only by us five, but includes Brains, Penny, Parker, Tin-Tin and Kyrano... We have all decided that we're not going to carry on. We are going to terminate International Rescue..."

Jeff managed to say one word. "No..."

"It's not a decision we've taken lightly. We've all thought about what we can do to keep it going, but we've come to the conclusion that no matter what we do we can't afford to..."

"No..."

"Please understand that this is not your fault," Scott pleaded. "But if we did continue we'd have to reduce our services and..."

"NO!"

Out in the corridor Grandma and Georgia heard the shout. It was followed by several more.

"They're upsetting him!" Concerned for her patient's wellbeing, Georgia took a step towards the door.

"No!" Grandma caught the nurse's arm. "Please, don't interrupt them. Jeff will calm down in a moment. Once he's thought about what they're telling him he'll understand that it's for the best."

"You know what this bad news is?"

"Yes, I do. And while it's a shock for him now, he will calm down soon..." The two women realised that the masculine voices coming from the room had once again become almost inaudible. "See. He's calming down already."

Using all his strength, Jeff had pushed himself upright with his stronger right arm. "No! You can't! I won't let you!" he tried to say, his words almost incomprehensible; before, frustrated by his lack of speech and already exhausted by that one simple manoeuvre, he flopped back onto the bed.

He hadn't needed words to express his thoughts and emotions.

"Please understand!" Scott begged. "This is for the best!"

"Dad!" John laid a hand on his father's shoulder. "This is not only about the money. It's about us. The five of us!"

Jeff stared at him. Then, without further comment, he relaxed. He regarded his second eldest thoughtfully.

"We're tired, Dad," John explained. "We've been risking our necks to save others for seven years, and we're burned out. We can't carry on. If we do, one of us will get hurt... or worse."

Scott picked up on his brother's theme. "We've been on duty 24/7 for seven years. There's no one to give us a break and there's no one coming through the ranks to replace us. We can't continue on like this, and if we can't continue on then International Rescue can't continue on."

"This is a mutual decision," Virgil stated. "No one has coerced anyone else into deserting International Rescue. We wouldn't."

Alan nodded. "Virgil's right. We thought about it and we've decided that it's what we want. What we _all_ want."

"Not only want," Gordon added, "it's what we all need. We all need a break. We need to lead 'normal'," he mimed the quotation marks, "lives."

Jeff observed each son one at a time. He could see how tired and drawn they all were. Not only that, they looked... old? How much of this was due to concern over their father's reaction to their decision and how much was due to their work? "W'n?"

"We told Penny we'd call her as soon as we'd told you," Scott explained. "She's going to let all our agents know and then go through her contacts to get word to the World President and ask him to send out a press release."

"F'm n'?"

"Yes, from now. Once we've given Penny the word, International Rescue will cease to exist."

Jeff nodded.

Relieved that his father appeared to be accepting their decision, Scott picked up Jeff's hand. "I'm sorry. We know how much International Rescue means to you. It means a lot to us too and it's not a decision we'd make if we weren't one hundred percent sure it was the right one."

Jeff nodded again and Scott felt his father squeeze his hand.

John picked up Jeff's other hand. "Are you all right?" He was treated to another nod and a weak smile. "You're looking tired. Do you want us to leave?" The grip on his hand tightened as if he was being held back, but Jeff gave another, weaker nod.

"We'll come back later." Virgil offered. "We'll have to discuss with you what you want us to do with the equipment anyway."

"Are you going to be okay?" Gordon queried, and smiled when Jeff responded with one of his nods.

"We'd better go. We've got a call to make," Scott noted, his voice sombre. "I'm sorry," he repeated and his hand received another squeeze.

"Shall we tell Grandma to come back in?" Alan asked.

Jeff mouthed the words "thank you," but no sound came out.

They filed out; their heads down and shoulders slumped; past a bewildered Georgia and stopped in front of their grandmother.

Grandma gave them each a hug in turn. "You've done the right thing," she asserted. "The only thing you could do. Remember that." She bustled back into her son's room.

None of the brothers said anything until they got back to the hotel.

Scott slumped against the wall and rubbed his face. "That did not go how I'd planned. I had it all worked out what I was going to say and then when I saw how worried he was I went to pieces."

"You did all right," Gordon reassured him. "I think he would have reacted like that no matter how we told him."

Alan collapsed into one of the chairs. "I can't imagine carrying on, but I can't believe we're finishing. It's been such an important part of our lives for so long."

John collapsed into a seat of his own. "It's _been_ our lives."

No one moved. They were silent for a full minute.

"Who's going to call Penny?" Virgil eventually asked.

"I suppose I'd better." Scott pulled up his sleeve to expose his watch. "Ten oh five. Anyone remember the time we first launched seven years ago?"

"Eight fifteen," John recollected.

"We started with a call from England and we're finishing with a call to England," Alan mused. "I suppose there's some symmetry in that."

"Calling Lady Penelope," Scott told his watch. "Come in, Penny."

Lady Penelope Creighton-Ward's sombre face appeared in place of his watch's dial. "Good day, Scott. How are you?"

Scott wasn't in the mood for pleasantries. "Hi, Penny."

"You have told your father?"

"We've told him. He was upset to start with, but he understands that it's necessary."

"I'm sorry," Lady Penelope admitted. "I'm sorry for us all. But I believe that you have made the right decision."

Scott sighed. "I want to believe that too."

"Give it time." The image in the watch blurred slightly as, in the only hint of the emotions she was feeling, Lady Penelope's powder compact gave an involuntary twitch. "Remember that it is thanks to International Rescue and your reports to the authorities after your rescues that the world is now a safer place."

"I suppose that's one way of looking at it," Scott admitted. "Maybe we will continue to save lives."

"I'm sure you will... Before we conclude the formal part of our relationships; both Parker and I would like to thank you all for allowing us to have a small role in such an admirable organisation. It has been an honour and a privilege."

Scott managed a minute smile. "And it's been a privilege working with you, Penny. Next time we meet it'll be in a purely informal setting."

"I shall look forward to it, dear boy... Ah... Shall I, er, start the wheels rolling?"

"Start them rolling," Scott instructed. "We're going to switch off the receiver so we can't receive any more calls from Thunderbird Five. We don't want anyone to try and reach International Rescue now we're no longer available."

"I shall do so. Keep in touch... all of you."

"F-A..." Scott pulled himself up short. "Will do."

"Good bye, dear boy. Keep your chin up." The watch face became a dial again.

John took the receiver out of his pocket. "I suppose I should shut this down." His finger hovered over the keypad, but he didn't touch it. "This feels so final."

"It is final," Virgil noted. "There's no going back now."

John looked at his brothers. "Do I do it?"

Scott pushed himself off the wall and claimed a seat so he could observe the coup-de-grace. "Do it."

"Right," John sighed. "Here goes..." There was a minute hesitation before he entered the code.

With a final wink of its lights, the receiver went dead.

And International Rescue was no more.

_To be continued..._


	2. Chapter 2 - A Planet Stirs

Well, it's Friday, so it must be time to upload...

**Chapter Two: A Planet Stirs**

Seven years passed and International Rescue faded from the collective consciousness of the world. It obtained a kind of mythical status, becoming the basis of stories told by parents to send their children off to sleep. Occasionally a disaster would cause people to wonder if the outcome could have been different if International Rescue had been involved, but by and large the organisation was forgotten by those who had never had direct contact with them.

The Tracy sons had spent the first few months post-International Rescue securing Tracy Island so their top secret equipment could never fall into the wrong hands. Their next task was to help Brains set up his new laboratory in America. Using Kyrano's metaphor they may have been the body of International Rescue, but they were well aware that Brains had been the brains. Feeling a measure of guilt that International Rescue's engineer had little say in International Rescue's continuation, they worked hard to ensure that his new laboratory had everything he could want and that he would be free to follow whatever undertaking he wished. By the time he was happy in his new surroundings and buried in his latest project, enough time had passed that no one associated the reintroduction of Jeff Tracy's offspring into society with the bombshell news of the dissolution of International Rescue.

Jeff, whose progress up till when his sons had broken the news to him had been slow but steady, seemed to give up. He bought himself a house in the States big enough to accommodate a man with limited mobility, hired a live-in nurse, and spent his days confined behind the property's eight-foot high walls.

Only twice did he appear in public. The first was at Alan and Tin-Tin's wedding, where he beamed with delight throughout the ceremony and puffed up with pride as Scott read out the father of the groom's speech. The second was six months later when he, surrounded by his grim-faced sons, watched as his mother was laid to rest beside her beloved husband. Then he retired to his home; becoming the recluse that the world had assumed him to be when he lived on Tracy Island. He accepted Kyrano's offer to be a live-in cook and gardener, and more importantly welcomed his friendship, but otherwise hid himself away from the rest of the world.

His sons went their separate ways and scattered throughout the country. In light of their father's withdrawal from society, John assumed full control of Tracy Industries. Scott, employed as a test pilot with Tracy Aviation, in effect became his employee. Virgil decided that he needed a new challenge far removed from engineering, and attempted to become a full-time artist. Gordon applied for, and got, his coveted underwater research assignment. Alan returned to his first love: motor racing. He and Tin-Tin were the only ones to still call Tracy Island home, although with the racing circuit's bohemian lifestyle, they were there so infrequently that the Tracy villa took on an air of desolation.

And, sealed out of sight, neglected and forgotten by the world in their rocky tombs, the mighty Thunderbirds deteriorated…

-I-R-

-F-A-B-

-I-R-

_Monday 3__rd__ July 2079_

As Brains would have been the first to tell you, science is always evolving. His own discoveries became the foundation of a new seismological system able to accurately predict the magnitude, size and date of earthquakes and volcanic eruptions up to six months in advance. This system, the Seismic Heralding Alarm Kinetic Energy Responder, known popularly as the SHAKER, was accurate to two days and had saved many lives as it had enabled the orderly evacuation of entire regions before disaster struck…

"You can't be reading it right, Gina."

"Grant, if you don't believe me, look for yourself."

The two seismologists stared at each other across the report that the SHAKER had spewed out. Then Grant Fisher turned the computer monitor so he was able to see the screen more clearly. "There's got to be a bug in the system somewhere."

"I wish there was," Gina Scolepi admitted. "But I ran debugging programmes before I re-ran the report, and the outcome's remained the same."

"But it's saying that in four months time, almost instantaneously, most of the world's seismic faults are going to experience a cataclysmic event. That's not possible!"

"I would have agreed with you if I hadn't seen this." Gina indicated the report.

"It's going to make the 2011 Japan earthquakes and tsunamis seem as horrific as... as..." Grant struggled to find a suitable simile for what had been a terrible tragedy. "As a pebble dropping into the ocean!"

"I realise that."

"That event caused the Earth to wobble on its axis. This event could send it spinning!"

"You're exaggerating."

"Exaggerating?! Do you know how many countries are going to be affected?"

"I do. There won't be a country on the planet unscathed."

"Unscathed! Gina, we could be talking about the destruction of the planet!"

"I know, Grant!"

"The Earth is going to crack open like a boiled egg hit by a spoon!"

"Grant…"

"It's going to be a huge catastrophe!"

"I know!" Gina, exasperated by her colleague's ranting and tempted to slap some sense into him, grabbed him by the arms. "So what do we do?"

"Do? Do! There's nothing we can do! There's nowhere that anyone can be evacuated to!"

"We've got to tell the World President."

"The World President?" Grant stared at his fellow seismologist as if she were mad. "What could she do?"

"People need to know what's going to happen."

"Why? What could they do about it? All we'll be doing is causing unnecessary panic."

"We're only two seismologists, Grant," Gina reminded him, trying to remain calm in the face of what appeared to be imminent doom. "We've got to get the word out in case someone has a solution."

"Solution! What possible solution could there be?! There're going to be massive earthquakes and eruptions and tsunamis and…"

"That's why we've got to tell the World President! It's her job to decide what the next course of action should be. That's why she's the politician and we're the scientists. If she chooses not to alarm the world, then that's her decision, not ours." Gina took a deep breath. "Look. Let's analyse the data more thoroughly and see what the extent of the event is likely to be. Once we've got a better understanding of what the planet's up against, then we can decide whether or not to tell the World President."

The World President was informed and she, after much soul-searching and deep discussions with her most trusted advisors, made the decision to release the news to the world.

There was wide-spread panic.

Religious leaders reported a huge upsurge in believers as people sought to find peace with some higher power and improve their chances of receiving a better existence beyond their mortal world. The rate of suicides increased 100-fold. So did murders, burglaries and other types of lawlessness as people decided that since the world would end before they had a chance to be processed through the legal system, they may as well take advantage of that fact. Adventure tourism boomed as their customers, reasoning that they were going to die anyway so what did it matter if it happened a few months early, let their hair down and took a few risks.

Talkback media and letters to the editor only had one topic of conversation. Some laid the blame at the feet of the oil industry for sucking all the oil out of the ground and leaving weakened pockets of nothing. Others blamed the godlessness of mankind, this politician or that politician, aliens from outer space, or rock music, while a good few espoused their theory that the whole thing was conspiracy by the World Government to bring the few nations not under their umbrella into line.

But by far the most common thread was the call for International Rescue to be re-established to save the planet from what the media had dubbed, rather un-originally, _Doomsday_.

"The World President knows who International Rescue were. There must be a record hidden somewhere in the vaults at Unity City!"

"Someone must know where the Thunderbirds are concealed. Get them out of storage now!"

"The World President should demand that International Rescue bring the Thunderbirds back into service."

"We _need_ International Rescue!"

-I-R-

-F-A-B-

_Friday 7__th__ July 2079_

Alone, despite all the people surrounding him, Scott Tracy cooled his heels at one of New York City's private airports. He was now at that stage in his life that the media delighted in calling "middle aged", a fact that he told himself didn't worry him unduly. He was fit, toned, and still garnered appreciative looks from passing women. The only visible sign of those ever advancing years was that his dark hair was highlighted with a slight greying at his temples. Although he'd never admit it to anyone, he did find this disquieting; taking it as a sign that he was no longer the daring young man that he had been during his days as International Rescue's Rescue Coordinator. Of course his siblings had taken great delight in pouncing on this new fact about their eldest brother at one of the regular family get-togethers, and had teased him mercilessly about getting old. He'd hated it, but known better than to let them see his discomfort. Discomfort which hadn't been helped by Brains expounding his theory that he was greying at such a young age due to the melanocytes in his hair slowing down production of melanin. This, Brains explained, enjoying his recitation, was the result of two factors. One was genetics, probably inherited from Scott's mother's side of the family and Scott gained some satisfaction from the realisation that if that was the case, then he wasn't likely to be only Tracy with white hair by the age of sixty. The second reason, Brains had blithely continued, unaware of the distress he was causing in his friend, was that Scott could blame his many hours of pulling major G-forces both in the Air Force and International Rescue for sucking the life out of his hair.

He could have dyed his hair, he knew that, but the very idea was an anathema to him.

His musings were interrupted when another man dropped his bag at his feet. "Hi," said the newcomer.

Scott took in the shoulder-length sky-blue hair that hung loose, the similarly coloured goatee beard, eyebrows and eyelashes (the latter hidden behind the granny-style sunglasses), the bohemian clothing, the studs through the nose, top lip and eyebrow, and the array of pins that ran the length of the other's ear culminating in a thin metal string passing through the right earlobe. The other earlobe had a huge hole in it, held open by what looked to be a section of hosepipe. The newcomer's sleeves were short; revealing one tattoo on the other's left forearm and another on the man's right bicep.

"Sorry, Pal," Scott growled. "I'm waiting for my brother."

Virgil sighed. "Scott, you play this charade every time we meet."

Scott picked up Virgil's bag and the brothers started walking towards the airstrip. "That's because you look nothing like you!"

"I'm not supposed to be me. I'm supposed to be..."

"Gustav, world famous artist," Scott grunted.

Virgil chuckled. "Try moderately successful."

"What's with that hole through your ear? Is it for Kasey to put a length of rope through so she can lead you around?" Scott joked and Virgil made no comment. "I hope you never go to see Father dressed like that."

"I did the other week," Virgil admitted. "He wasn't impressed..." Scott could well imagine his father's reaction. "I told him that it was what the art world expected. And he spent the next half hour lecturing me on how the most important thing to be is true to yourself. He's right, of course... He was exhausted by the time he'd finished and he had to go to bed. The nurse was furious with me for tiring him out and she's never looked at me the same again. I don't think she quite knows what to make of me now..." Virgil's voice faded away at the recollection. Then he gathered himself together. "I would have got changed before I came here, but I've come straight from my agent's. We've been going over the final plans for my exhibition."

"How's it going?" Scott had already done the pre-flight checks of his private jet and as they talked the pair stowed Virgil's bags away in the lockers before settling themselves into their seats to await clearance to take off.

"It's looking good," Virgil admitted. "I'm hopeful it'll generate some real interest this time." He grasped both ends of the earring threaded through his ear and Scott winced as his brother gave the piece of jewellery a sharp yank. The earring came free, leaving the earlobe unblemished.

Virgil laughed at Scott's surprised expression. "It's held together by magnets," he explained. "It gives the appearance of a piercing without actually needing to put any holes in my body." He pulled the other ear pins free, scraped the studs off his face, and placed all the bits into a small tin.

"But what about…" Scott gaped as a piece of earlobe, along with the hosepipe, was also consigned to the tin; which was pocketed. "It's all fake?"

"Yep. Prosthetics."

"Why don't you save yourself the bother and get some real piercings?"

"Not Virgil Tracy's style. Besides, I've seen too many body bits torn by snagged jewellery to risk it myself."

Scott made no comment. He was still getting used to Virgil's tendency to talk about himself in the third person. "I see you have got some tattoos."

"Oh, yeah?" Grinning Virgil produced a pot of cream and some cotton wool. A quick swipe across the middle of his forearm and part of the tattoo disappeared. "Why would I want to engrave my body with a picture I wouldn't hang on my wall?"

"Gustav obviously does."

"Gustav sees it as a statement against society."

"Virgil. You worry me sometimes."

Virgil laughed and showed off the picture on his right bicep. "What does that remind you of?"

Scott examined the print. It was a bird of prey against a stormy background. The lightning bolt clasped in its talons formed the vague shape of a number. He grinned. "Thunderbird Two."

"Well done. Opal thought it was too tough for Gustav's persona, but I like the symbolism behind it."

"Opal?"

"The makeup artist who helped me with all the camouflage."

"Oh…" Trying not to imagine one of his brothers wearing makeup, Scott grabbed Virgil's left arm and twisted it around so he could see the stylised writing. "What's this one say?"

"Ow!" Virgil pulled his arm free of his sibling's clutches and held it so Scott could see what remained of the text. "Aeneid."

"What?!"

"Aeneid! As in Virgil's _Aeneid_. It's Opal's idea of an in-joke. I didn't have the heart to tell her I'm named after the pilot, not the poet."

"How do you manage to line them up the same way each time?"

"Easy. The base of the number two follows the scar I got from Bucharest, and the line of the wing covers the scar from Montero. The left eye is where I got my Tuberculosis jab. The bottom of the letters of Aeneid run along the scar I got from Regnad. If I can't be bothered with fussing about with the transfers I just wear long sleeves."

"What did Opal say about all your scars?"

"I told her that I was in a car accident." Virgil finished cleaning his arm. "How's Stewie?"

"Stuart," Scott corrected. "He's nearly an adult."

"That hasn't stopped you calling me Virg... How old is he now?"

"He turns 17 next week."

"17!" Virgil gasped. "It doesn't seem that long ago that he was this skinny little eleven-year-old."

"I know," Scott agreed. "He's getting his private pilot's licence on his birthday. I promised him I'd throw him a big celebration party when he passed."

Virgil laughed. "Scott, you're supposed to mentor them in the Big Brother programme. Not turn them into your clone."

"He's always been interested in planes and flying," Scott responded indignantly. "That's one reason why they paired the two of us together."

"What does his gran think about him becoming a pilot?"

"She's all for it. She's glad he's found an interest that he's stuck to. It's kept him out of trouble."

"You helped tutor him?"

"Of course. Mrs K could never have afforded lessons. It's been enough of a struggle for her bringing him up since his parents died."

"So you've paid for them all."

Scott shrugged. "It's not like I couldn't spare the money."

"You'll never change, Scott." Virgil gave his brother an affectionate punch on the shoulder. "You'll never stop being a mother hen. If you can't be clucking over one of us then you'll find someone else."

"Mother hen?" Scott snorted. "I'm not the one with bright blue plumage. Why don't you take that wig off?" He reached over and pulled at the blue-sky strands on his brother's head.

Virgil gave a yelp of pain. "Don't do that!"

Scott stared at him in amazement. "That's your hair?!"

"Yes."

"Why? I thought you wore wigs when you played Gustav."

"I used to," Virgil admitted. "But it's easier this way."

"What about your beard?"

"It's real."

"And your..."

"Yes."

"You've dyed _all_ your hair?"

"It's not _that_ unusual, Scott. You might want to consider dyeing your own. It'll help cover up the grey."

Clearance from the control tower gave Scott the necessary excuse to ignore the comment. He set his jet in motion.

It wasn't until they were airborne and far beyond any chance of eavesdroppers that the reason for their journey was mentioned. "Do you think we'll be able to do anything?" Virgil asked.

"Dunno. Brains has been working on the problem non-stop since the World President made her announcement. He hasn't said if he's found a solution yet. This might be one time when even International Rescue can't work a miracle..." Scott made a slight flight adjustment. "I hope Gordon has the good sense to not bring Marina." His brother's red-headed wife had always managed to rub him up the wrong way. Her high-pitched voice, irritating laugh, overblown make-up, patronising attitude towards his father and her obvious materialism never failed to increase his irritation quotient and shorten his fuse. His brothers felt the same; John dubbing her the Vamp-ire.

"I still don't know what he sees in her," Virgil mused. "I think it must be her name that excites him."

"There can't be any other reason," Scott conceded. "What I can't understand is why he can't see that she doesn't love him?"

"I can't understand it either."

"She's only interested in herself."

"You've got that right."

"She looks like something that you'd find in the sleazier parts of town!"

"She was a cocktail waitress."

"I'm thinking that she sold more than drinks."

"Any evidence of that?"

"No. But I do know that she's a dirty little gold-digger!"

"I agree."

"She doesn't care about Gordon!"

"Maybe she does…"

"What!?"

"In her own way…"

"Own way!" Scott exploded. "All she cares about is Father's money! She couldn't care less about Gordon, and the stupid idiot can't see it!"

"Calm down, Scott!" Virgil exclaimed. "You know what happened the last time you let her get under your skin."

Scott grunted a reply and took a few minutes to regain his composure as his aeroplane soared on its unerring path.

Virgil waited until he judged the time was right before asking his next question. "How are things between you and Gordon?"

"Okay…" Scott rubbed the side of his face. "I guess."

"You know…" Virgil sounded almost too casual as he spoke. "You never did say precisely what happened between the pair of you."

"That's all in the past," Scott informed him. "It doesn't matter now."

And Virgil realised that the subject was closed. Seeking to reopen communications between them, he picked what he thought would be a safe subject, "How's Farrah?" and was surprised to see his brother's face flush. "What's wrong?"

"We're not together anymore."

"Oh..." At a loss as to what else he could say, Virgil asked the obvious. "What happened?"

Scott was silent for a time and Virgil let him decide whether or not to elaborate. Finally the elder brother spoke. "I thought we were solid. I trusted her and she trusted me."

"Had you told her about International Rescue?"

"No." Scott laugh was bitter. "I suppose you can't expect to have an honest and open relationship when you're not willing to give out a secret like that."

"Tell me about it." Virgil gave a grim smile. "So, what happened?" he repeated.

"You knew Farrah was a busy woman. I thought she was dedicated to her job, which meant that we couldn't get together every night, but that suited me because it meant I could spend time with Stewie..." This time his silence lasted several minutes.

Virgil decided that if his brother didn't want to elaborate then he wasn't going to push him and so he changed the subject. "How's work?"

Scott appeared unfazed by the change of topic. "Do you want the truth? I hate it!"

"What!? But I thought being a test pilot was your ideal job."

"If I was testing planes it would be. But my boss has decided that I'm too precious for that... " Scott saw Virgil's horrified expression. "No, I'm not talking about John," he clarified. "Tracy Aviation's general manager. He's scared that something might happen to the bosses' son and brother so he's confined me to my desk."

"He had no right to do that. Your job description is as test pilot for Tracy Aviation."

"He's clever, which is probably why he got the job. He hasn't issued an outright directive saying that I'm to keep my feet on the ground. It's just that every time I'm lined up for a flight I get called away for some triviality or I've got to help tweak a plan that I'd finished working on weeks earlier."

"He's missing out on using the best pilot in the business."

"He'd rather know that I was wrapped up in cotton wool."

"Why don't you quit and rejoin the Air Force?"

"I'd probably end up with another desk job."

"That's a bit defeatist, isn't it?"

"I like being part of the family business! Even if it is only a small part."

"Talk to John," Virgil suggested. "I'm sure he'd be willing to set the G-M straight."

Scott snorted. "Good thinking, Virgil. Get my younger brother to fight my battles for me. My co-workers are already wondering what kind of person I am. That's when they're not wondering if I'm there to spy on them."

"Spy?"

"And if the gossip mill's as thorough as I think it is, John's probably heard all sorts of stories about me."

Virgil frowned. "Stories?"

"Any dirt on Jeff Tracy's first-born son is number one topic of conversation at the water cooler."

"What kind of stories?" Virgil queried. "What on Earth could _you_ have been doing to warrant being gossiped about?"

"I haven't done anything. Not intentionally anyway." Scott scowled at the calm blue sky outside as if it was the source of all his problems.

"Scott!" Virgil was becoming exasperated by all the hints and no information. "What are you talking about? What have you done...? Or not done as the case may be."

"You asked me about Farrah."

"Uh... Yeah..." Virgil agreed, wondering at the sudden reversal in topic.

"You asked why we broke up."

"Yes."

"She took someone's advice and dumped me."

"She dumped you! Whose advice was this?"

"Her husband's."

"_What_!?" Virgil's blue goatee dropped an inch as he fixed his steady, safe, straight-laced brother with an incredulous stare.

"I was working at my desk because the G-M had taken me off a flight when this guy walked up to me and attempted to take a swing at me."

Stunned, Virgil could only gape at his brother.

"It was all a lie," the bitterness was clear in Scott's voice. "She didn't have this high flying career; she worked from home during the day selling cosmetics or something. The reason why we couldn't be together on the evenings that she was 'working' was because she was home with her husband. The evenings that she was with me she'd told him the same lie. All the gifts I'd bought her she'd told him she'd bought with her own money."

"Did you know she was married?"

"I didn't have a clue."

"How'd the husband find out about you?"

"I don't know. I didn't stop to have a conversation with the guy. I was too busy stopping him from hitting me and trying to explain that I didn't know what he was talking about. All while the rest of the office is enjoying the sideshow. Then Farrah came rushing in and pulled him away from me."

"What did she say?"

"Nothing to me. She started sobbing and telling him that she was sorry and that it was all a mistake and that I didn't mean anything to her."

Virgil realised how devastating the whole experience would have been to his brother. "Do you think she was after your money?"

Scott shrugged. "I don't know. I haven't spoken to her since."

"I'm sorry, Scott," Virgil admitted. "I thought you two were made for each other."

"Yeah," Scott agreed. "So did I..." He sighed and seemed to deflate. "Do you know how hard it is for someone my age to find a woman? They're all already in some kind of steady relationship. And those that aren't see the slightest hint of grey and decide that you're over the hill." He immediately regretted his brief show of weakness. "On to a more cheerful subject; how are you and Kasey?" Kasey was an artist who'd fallen for Gustav's paintings and then for Gustav himself, and it was Scott's turn to be surprised when Virgil screwed up his face. "What's wrong?"

"I thought you wanted a more cheerful subject."

"What happened?"

"Like you, I thought we were solid. I was even considering telling her my real identity."

"About International Rescue too?"

"No."

"So, why didn't you tell her you're really Virgil Tracy?"

Virgil gathered his thoughts. "She'd been invited to a party, so Gustav tagged along." He bit his lip. "I thought it was just another boring party with a whole lot of artists standing around explaining what made their artwork so great and what made so-and-so's so terrible. By the end of the evening I'd usually wish I could find someone who understood crankshafts and annular bearings who I could have an intelligent conversation with."

"I've said it before, Virgil. You're not made for that scene."

"No, but Gustav is. And if you want to get anywhere in the New York art scene, you've got to mingle with the right people."

"And is that what you want?"

"Huh?"

"Is that what you really want? To mingle with posturing artists, with your hair long and dyed blue, and wearing fake jewellery, pretending to be someone and something you're not. Are you happy?"

"I'm happy to be spending time with you," Virgil told him. "We don't get a lot of time together these days."

"That's not what I meant."

It was Virgil's turn to be silent. Then he spoke. "At first it was great. I think I was burned out with all the state-of-the-art technology we were dealing with and I wanted to get back to something simple. And you can't get much simpler than splashing a bit of paint on a piece of canvas." He managed a smile. "Kasey told me that she can pick out Gustav's work because he always paints palm trees at odd angles. I hadn't realised, but when I went back through his earlier pieces I discovered that she was right."

Scott smiled too. "You can take the man out of International Rescue, but you can't take International Rescue out of the man."

"I guess so. Anyway, at first I was quite happy to be exhibited as Virgil Tracy. One advantage of not being an Olympic gold medallist or a race ace is that no one knew what he looked like. I could play the piano to provide ambiance and listen to everyone's comments about his paintings."

"What if they were critical?"

"Some were, but I know you can't please everyone, and sometimes a negative comment can help you become a better painter. It was the other comments that were troubling."

"Troubling? In what way?" Virgil had never told anyone why he'd taken on his alter ego and, fascinated, Scott listened.

"I heard several people say that if it wasn't for whom my father was they wouldn't have even come to the gallery, let alone purchased something. They weren't interested in me for my art; they were only interested in owning the Tracy name. When I realised that I decided to see if they approved of the work of a total unknown. And so I invented Gustav and got myself a new agent who didn't know Virgil Tracy."

"And became moderately successful."

Virgil gave a dry chuckle. "Yes. It meant having to put on a wig and a false beard, and a few other bits and pieces every time Gustav went anywhere, but I could live with that. Until..."

"Until?"

Lost in his thoughts Virgil stared out the window.

"Virgil?"

"Huh?" Virgil gave himself a shake. "You were asking about Kasey?"

"You'd been invited to this boring party."

"I thought it would be a party like any other, but that was until we got there."

"What was different?"

"It was a drugs party. And I'm not talking aspirin."

Scott stared at Virgil. "What? Heroin?"

"Heroin, cocaine, methamphetamine, stuff I've never heard of. You name it, it was there. There was a ready supply of hypodermic syringes so you could take your trip of choice."

Scott, who'd only used a needle to save lives, shuddered.

Virgil continued his tale. "I've been to other parties where I've assumed that some drug taking went on, but that was all behind closed doors. You'd get a whiff of something suspicious, but there was never anything overt. But this was a free for all."

"What did you do?"

"Decided that I wanted to get out of there. And I wanted Kasey to come with me."

"What did she think?"

"She already had her sleeve rolled up. I was told in no uncertain terms that if I didn't want to stay I'd be leaving without her."

None of the Tracy boys had ever felt the inclination to dabble in the world of drugs, and as far as Scott was aware none of them had ever been in a situation where they'd had access to them. "What did you do?" he repeated.

"When it was clear that a vial of whatever it was being injected into her arm was more important to her than I was, I left. She was laughing at me."

"Did you realise that she was into drugs?"

"I think I was in denial. I told myself she couldn't hold her drink and that was why she tended to go a bit spacey at parties. I'd seen no real evidence that she was into anything illicit. Plus I think that must have been one of the first times that she tried the hard stuff..."

"So what happened then?"

"I'd only just driven away when there were sirens, police converging from all directions, and the place was raided."

Scott gave a low whistle. "Just as well you got out of there when you did. You can guarantee it wouldn't have been Gustav's name in the papers."

"But somehow word got around that it was Gustav who'd rung the cops. He's become _persona non grata_ in the art world and Kasey has never spoken to me since."

"I'm sorry, Virgil," Scott empathised. "I know this isn't much comfort, but you did the right thing. And honestly, if the drugs were more important to her than you were, then you're better without her."

"I keep telling myself that, but it doesn't make me feel any happier."

"I can relate to that."

Virgil grimaced. "So much for the five of us being the world's most eligible bachelors. Alan's the only one who's managed to find someone he can be really open and happy with."

"And that's probably because Tin-Tin was already practically part of the family and she knows all about International Rescue," Scott noted. "So, getting back to my original question. Do I assume that you're not happy?"

"That's an excellent assumption," Virgil agreed. "And it's not only because of Kasey; it's because of Gustav as well. He's taking me over, Scott! Virgil Tracy would never have let his hair grow long." He took hold of a sky blue lock and looked at it. "Do you know why I chose this colour?"

"No."

"Isn't it familiar?"

Scott frowned. "It's the same colour as the sky, isn't it?"

"It's the same colour as our International Rescue uniforms! I chose it to remind me who I was." Virgil released the lock of hair and slumped back in his seat.

"At least you haven't put in yellow highlights," Scott joked.

Virgil stared out the window without seeing anything.

"Virgil?"

There was no response.

Realising the need for them both to get a more positive outlook, Scott put his stern voice on. "What you need, Virgil Tracy, is to get your feet back on the ground and forget all this artistic garbage." Virgil grunted. "Look, if we do decide that we can do something, you're going to have four months on Tracy Island doing nothing but engineering work. That's got to be good for you."

Virgil made no comment as he released his safety harness and disappeared into the back of the plane. When he returned he was carrying a thick book.

Scott glanced over at the tome. "What's that?"

"One of my old engineering text books." Virgil opened it at a bookmarked section, pulled a hair tie from out of his pocket and tied his hair back so it wouldn't get in the way.

Scott watched the procedure in amazement. Lost for words at the sight of one of his brothers with a sky blue ponytail, he turned back towards the similarly hued sky outside the aeroplane. "Why don't you just cut it?" he suggested. "I've got scissors on board."

"It's not Gustav's style."

"So? Think of it as the ceremonial cutting of the ribbon, marking the beginning of your new life."

"What if we can't do anything," Virgil asked, "and we've got to go back to our miserable lives and resign ourselves to counting down the rest of our days?"

Scott had no answer to that. "What are you reading a textbook for anyway?"

"If we are going to save the world, I'm going to need a refresher course."

"Uh, uh," Scott contradicted. "What you need to do is have a refresher course in flying this plane."

Dumbfounded Virgil stared at him. "Why?"

"I need to know that you're still capable of flying Thunderbird Two."

"I've kept my hand in."

"Yeah, but only on short bunny hops across the country. Thunderbird Two's a bit more of a challenge than your crate."

Virgil was affronted by his brother's lack of faith. "I could still fly Thunderbird Two in my sleep."

"I'm not asking you to dream about flying Thunderbird Two; I'm telling you to fly my plane now!"

"Me? Fly _your_ plane while you're sitting next to me? Scott, you must be kidding! You're the worst back seat pilot in the world!"

"Maybe, but at least I've done a lot more flying recently."

"Fine!" Virgil grumbled. "Give me a moment to stow this away again." He returned his textbook to his bag, and then made sure his safety harness was done up. "Is yours secure?"

"Yes." Scott took his hands off the control yoke. "She's all yours..."

-I-R-

-F-A-B-

John Tracy stood on the pier and waited. Today, in preparation for the long flight to Tracy Island, he'd forgone his usual neat business suit and was dressed in more casual gear. His shirt was open at the neck revealing the pale skin of a body that didn't get outside of an office too often, His physique spoke of a lifestyle big on business meetings, and short on exercise; compounded by encroaching middle age. Most people who met him wouldn't have called him fat, but for those who had known him before he'd taken control of one of the biggest conglomerates in the world, he'd definitely gained weight.

A little jet boat appeared in the bay and motored into the wharf, coming up alongside. John accepted the rope that was tossed up to him and bent down to tether it to a cleat, trying to ignore his body's protests around the belt region.

"You're getting fat," Gordon informed him as he finished making his boat fast. The younger Tracy threw a bag onto the pier and grinned up at his brother. "Too many business dinners."

"I am not fat," John rebuked as he picked up the bag.

"Oh, yeah?" Gordon bounded easily up the ladder. "Where's the car?"

"Over there. Where's Marina?"

Gordon frowned at the question. "You don't think I'd bring her along to something like this, do you?"

"She is your wife," John reminded him.

"What's that got to do with anything?" Gordon snapped.

"I assumed that she would think that she was entitled to stay with her husband."

"Well, I don't!"

"You don't?"

"Why does everyone in my family think they have a right to tell me what I should and shouldn't do and who I should or shouldn't marry!?" Gordon slammed his bag onto the ground. "You're just as bad as Scott!"

Astounded by the venom in this outburst, John could only gape at him.

Gordon saw the shock in his brother's face. "I'm sorry, John," he said meekly.

"It's okay."

"This whole marriage thing's been preying on my mind. I've told Marina I want to get a divorce."

"Divorce?" John gaped at his brother again. "Gordon! You've only been married for what…? Seven months?"

"The marriage was over a long time ago. We've been sleeping in separate beds for ages, and the only reason why we're not in separate rooms is because the houseboat only has one bedroom."

"Oh, Gordon…" John sympathised. "I am sorry."

It was as though his sympathy had ignited another fuse. "You're not sorry," Gordon challenged, "none of you will be. You didn't want me to marry her! Scott will be overjoyed! He practically demanded that I dump her!"

"Uh…" Gordon's second outburst in as many minutes floored John. "I… Uh… We…"

Gordon took a deep breath and made a visible attempt to cool down. "You're not sorry," he repeated, "and neither am I. When she's in one of her tempers she freely admits that she married me for Dad's money."

John reflected that Marina's tempers seemed to be infectious. "She does?"

"She was most put out to discover that, not only is Dad expected to live for a few more decades, but also I've got three brothers ahead of me before I can claim my share of the loot. So after I got Scott's call to arms this morning, I told her to give her boyfriend a ring and tell him that he could come and pick her up once I'd gone."

Shocked again, John stared at his brother. "She has a boyfriend?"

"She's never admitted as such, but I'm sure she has. She's denied it of course. Doesn't want to jeopardise her chance of getting her hands on my money. I told her to get her lawyer to talk to my lawyer and see if they can come to some agreement that won't leave me a pauper… Where did you say the car was?"

Speechless, John led the way to the sporty little saloon; licence number TBFIVE. Normally he was shepherded around by a chauffeur, leaving him free to study Tracy Industries' papers, but this time he'd decided that he didn't want to risk anyone eavesdropping on their conversation. He put the car into gear and started driving. "Scott's already picked up Virgil. They'll probably get there about half an hour before us. Lady Penelope's going to bring Brains out to the island."

"Any word on when they'll get there? We can't start the party without him."

"Apparently Penny's having to use a crowbar to prise him out of his lab. He keeps on finding new bits of research that he wants to read before he gives us his findings."

"And has he found a solution?"

"He hasn't said," John admitted. He was still getting his head around the morning's discoveries. "Have you told Dad you're getting divorced?"

"Haven't had the time. Once I got Scott's call I packed my bag and said goodbye to Marina. I'll want to tell him face-to-face and not over the phone."

"He will support you, Gordon. We all will."

"Thanks." Gordon settled back into his seat. "Well, since we've already dissected mine and decided that it's a total failure; how's your love life?"

John snorted. "Non-existent."

"Come on, John. You're one of the most powerful men in America, if not the world. You should have women falling at your feet."

"You don't get to be one of the 'most powerful men', which I dispute, without having little time for socialising. The only women I have the opportunity to meet either work for me or else want to work with me."

"Any talent at Tracy Industries?"

"Any women working for me are totally out of bounds, Gordon. I'm their boss for Pete's sake!"

"You can tell me and I won't tell a living soul," Gordon promised. "Cross my heart. Have you ever been tempted to ask one of your employees out?"

"Well, there's Emma, my secretary…" John caught himself. "No. I may have been tempted, but there's no way I'd step over that boundary. I've always been careful not to show that I'm attracted to her. Besides, for all I know she's already got a steady love interest."

"But she's not married?"

"No."

Gordon let out a cheer. "Then there's hope for you yet, Johnny."

"No, there's not. Not while I'm her employer."

"So sack her and then ask her out of a date!"

"Would you go out with me if I sacked you?"

"You're not my type."

John decided that Gordon was getting too ridiculous to bother continuing the conversation. "How's the research going?"

He noticed that his brother's face lit up at the question. "Great! We've discovered the last surviving pocket of lion coral and we've managed to get it to breed in captivity!"

John smiled at his brother's enthusiasm. "Are you going to be able to replace dead reefs?"

"Probably not in the short term, the ocean's temperatures have increased too much to sustain coral in its native environment, but at least we should be able to maintain a breeding population until such time as the temperatures revert back to acceptable levels."

"Any idea how long that will be?"

Gordon made a face. "Decades. Maybe even centuries. Mankind has a lot to answer for. We're supposed to be such an intelligent species and look at what we're doing to the planet!"

"I know."

"Maybe we should forget about restarting International Rescue and let Mother Nature destroy us all as punishment!"

John laughed at his brother's joke.

Except Gordon didn't appear to be joking. "Don't laugh at me, John!?"

"I wasn't..."

"Maybe that would solve everyone's problems! Have you considered that!?"

"Errm... Okay..." John was glad to arrive at Tracy Industries' private airport.

-I-R-

-F-A-B-

Tin-Tin smoothed out the duvet and then felt a pair of arms slip around her waist. "Alan! I'm busy!" She twisted in his embrace so that she could look up at him.

"How busy?" he asked; a mischievous gleam in his eye. "All these beds are giving me ideas."

"Very busy," she responded, slapping him playfully on the chest. "And I've got an idea too. You can help me make John's and Brains'."

"Leave them," he suggested. "We can come back to that later."

"I want to have them made before they get here."

"They're big boys. They can make their own."

"Alan!" She tried to push free. "I am going to make their beds now!"

"But Tin-Tin," he moaned, still holding her close, "this might be the last chance for us to be alone for months. Maybe even forever!"

At the unpleasant reminder of what the gathering was for, Tin-Tin wrapped her arms about him. "Do you think International Rescue will be able to do anything?" she asked, hugging her husband tightly.

"I don't know," Alan admitted. "I know Brains has been researching all the seismology and geography of the danger zones, so maybe he's come up with a potential solution. We'll know soon…" He kissed her gently. "But remember that we're not going to go down without a fight." He kissed her again, this time more passionately. "Come on, Honey," he begged. "Before we're invaded and can't get any privacy."

"There's a lock on the bedroom door. That will give us privacy." Tin-Tin pushed free from his arms and picked up the basket of clean linen, which she held out to her husband. "You can carry this for me."

Alan conceded defeat and accepted the basket.

Standing with her hands on her hips, Tin-Tin looked about the room. "The whole house needs redecorating."

"Would you rather we did that instead of trying to save the world?"

"Oh, don't be silly, Alan." Tin-Tin led the way into John's bedroom.

Alan placed the basket on a chair. "I hope Gordon's got enough sense to not bring Marina."

"She is his wife," Tin-Tin reminded him.

"I know. That doesn't mean that I trust her."

"No," Tin-Tin admitted. "Neither do I. It is sad, isn't it?"

"We'll have to keep all the doors locked to stop her from snooping around." Alan took a sheet out of the basket. "Or better still! We'll lock _her _in_ her_ room so we know where she is at all times. We can cut a hole in the door so we can feed her. I'm sure there's some oxyhydnite hidden somewhere."

"Alan!" Tin-Tin scolded. "She is your sister-in-law!"

"When the others get here we'll take a vote on it." Alan held out one end of the sheet. "Those for keeping her behind locked doors versus those against."

Tin-Tin burst out laughing. "You're awful!"

"I know how Scott would vote."

Tin-Tin accepted the end of the sheet, and the pair of them started making the bed. "How are things between Gordon and Scott?" she asked.

"I think they're okay. They were talking to each other last time we got together."

"Do you know why they fell out?"

"At a guess Scott tried to tell Gordon a few home truths and Gordon didn't take kindly to it. But that seems too simplistic. Something else must have happened."

"I hope they have reconciled their differences." Tin-Tin folded a corner of the sheet under the mattress as she'd been taught by Mrs Tracy. "You'll all need to be able to trust each other implicitly if Brains does come up with a solution."

"Yeah. There'll be no room for doubts. But they're both professionals. I can't see either of them letting their personalities get in the way of doing their jobs." Alan tossed the pillow to the head of the bed.

Muttering something about men having no idea, Tin-Tin straightened it before smoothing the pillowcase.

Alan, wrapped up in his musings about the mystery that was his brother's marriage, didn't hear her comment. "I still don't know what Gordon sees in her... On their wedding day I could have almost believed that she'd drugged him to force him to marry her."

Tin-Tin stared at him. "You did? Why?"

"Because he was grinning like a lunatic all the way through the ceremony."

"Maybe he was happy?"

"I was happy when we got married and I didn't look like that."

"No…" Tin-Tin had a faraway smile at the memories. "You looked distinguished… and terrified."

"I was. I was terrified that I'd drop the rings. I was terrified that I'd call you by the wrong name. I was terrified about making a fool of myself at the reception." He gave a wicked grin and stepped closer. "I wasn't able to relax until I carried you across the threshold." Moving with the sort of speed that he coaxed from his race car, he swept her off her feet and into his arms. "Come on. Let's go relive some happy memories."

"You," she tapped him on the chest, "have a one track mind."

"Yep!" he growled. "And I'm not thinkin' about the race track." A siren rang through the house. "The proximity alarm," he groaned as he placed her feet back on the ground. "It's not fair. I've got four big brothers who love to play gooseberry."

"Who do you think it is?"

"One hundred to one it'll be Scott and Virgil." Alan gave another wicked grin and pulled Tin-Tin close again. "What's my prize if I'm right?"

Tin-Tin giggled, pushed free and picked up the basket. "You'd better go and give whoever it is clearance to land while I finish this. It's going to be nice to have most of the family together."

"Except that this isn't going to be a social reunion. If Brains has come up with a workable solution we're going to need to spend every available minute getting International Rescue up and running again."

"Is that what you want, Alan?"

It was a question that Alan wasn't expecting, even if he'd spent many long hours contemplating the answer. "If I was still in International Rescue, I would never have proposed to you, Tin-Tin," he admitted. "And that," he gave her a kiss on the nose, "is definitely what I wouldn't want." He walked out of the room.

Having finished making the beds, Tin-Tin joined him by the runway as they waited for the newcomer. It wasn't long before their visitor flew into view.

Alan shielded his eyes against the sun. "Something looks funny."

"Funny?" Tin-Tin mirrored his action. "It's upside-down, isn't it?"

"Scott's showing off. He wants to prove that he's not over the hill and has still got it."

Continuing on its upside-down path the aeroplane had been lined up with the runway, almost as if its pilot planned to land with the wheels uppermost; then, seemingly at the last possible minute before the fuselage made contact with the tarmac, it tilted its nose skyward and soared around in a combined loop and barrel roll before touching down in an almost flawless landing.

Alan grinned. "He's still got it."

-F-A-B-

Inside the cockpit Virgil removed his hands from the control yoke and sat back. "There you are: piece of cake." He grinned over at his brother. "You're looking a bit pale there, Scott."

Scott stared at him with a mixture of surprise and awe. "I didn't know you could do that!"

"I told you I'd kept my hand in."

"Virgil! You don't learn to fly like that by 'keeping your hand in'."

"No?" Virgil reached into his wallet and pulled out an identification card, which he showed to his brother.

"_Virgil Tracy_." Scott read. "_New York Hawks aerobatic team. Captain._" He glared at the card's owner. "You never told me!" he accused.

"No." Virgil admitted. "I had this dream that we'd be performing at an air show and you'd be in the crowd and that I'd be able to surprise you."

"This might not be an air show, but you've surprised me all right."

"So," Virgil smirked. "Do you think I'll be able handle Thunderbird Two?"

"Virgil, you know it takes a lot to impress me, flying-wise, but I'm definitely impressed. I'm glad that you flying Thunderbird Two is one less problem we've got to worry about... I only have one issue."

Virgil looked surprised. "What's that?"

Scott indicated the ID card. Virgil's photo was clean shaven and his hair was short and chestnut brown. "You look nothing like you."

Virgil accepted the card back. "I know. The rest of the team keep telling me that I should get a new card, but I don't want one. This reminds me who I really am." With no further comment he replaced the ID and clambered out of the jet.

Alan greeted his brothers. "Awesome flying, Scott."

"Thanks." Virgil held his arms open to his sister-in-law. "How are you, Tin-Tin?"

She giggled after her greeting. "I'd be better if I didn't have to kiss those whiskers."

"Honey, if you'd married me instead of Alan, I would shave them off for you... How are you, Alan?"

"Fine... That wasn't you flying the plane, Scott?"

"Nope," Scott admitted. "I was testing Virgil's flying skills."

Alan grinned. "I think he passed the test."

-F-A-B-

Nothing was said between the brothers until John's sleek little jet was flying through the skies. Then Gordon offered a tentative, "How's work?"

"Keeping me busy," John admitted. "I don't know how Dad found the time to run the business, bring up five kids, and still have a life."

"At least you're managing to maintain a profit."

"Yep. I've even managed to get us close to the levels we were before Dad had the stroke. At least we're not going to have any problems with finances if we do decide we can do something."

"Looking forward to seeing Thunderbird Five again?"

"I'm in two minds about that," John admitted. "She's been shut down for seven years. What state is she going to be in? All her controls are probably frozen solid. We might have to do a complete refit. Are we even going to be able to recommission her in the time we've got?"

"I'm thinking the same thing about Thunderbird Four. What's her hull going to be like?"

"You have one advantage over me," John smiled. "At least you won't have to wait to see Thunderbird Four. You'll probably have her ready for service before I even get to see Thunderbird Five."

Gordon snapped. "Do you think Thunderbird Four's going to be easier to recommission than Five?" he demanded. "There are any number of things that could have gone wrong with Four!"

"Uh..." John was beginning to get the impression that he wasn't going to be able to say anything without inspiring Gordon's wrath. "I know..."

"Her electronics are just as sensitive as your tin can! Plus if there's any degradation to the hull that's going to require a lot of repair work before I'll be able to dive to any depth! I suppose you'd like to see me crushed inside her!" Gordon balled his hands up into fists.

"No, of course not," John soothed. "And I'll be available to help while I wait for Thunderbird Three to be prepped to go up to Thunderbird Five." He favoured his brother with an ingratiating smile and got another shock.

Over the last seven years Gordon had managed to swim for work and pleasure most days, and he still had the muscular, toned body that he'd possessed whilst a member of International Rescue. But now he appeared to have shrunk in his seat. He huddled there with his arms wrapped around him looking like a small scared child.

"Gordon...? Are you all right?"

Gordon said nothing and looked out the window.

"Gordon...?" Totally bemused by his brother's behaviour, John could only offer a tentative offer of help. "Look... Obviously I'm no expert in matrimony, but do you want to talk? You know I can keep a secret, and no one's going to interrupt us up here. If you want I can just sit and listen. Maybe you'll be able to get things sorted in your own mind if you talk about it?"

Gordon looked down to where his hands now lay his lap; his fingers twisting together.

John didn't prompt him and for several minutes there was silence in the cabin as the jet soared ever closer to Tracy Island.

Eventually Gordon appeared to steel his nerve. "Do you promise you won't tell anyone?"

"You have my word. Anything said in this cockpit stays in this cockpit."

There was another few minutes silence before Gordon spoke again. "I..."

Another voice broke in and, angry at the interruption, John grabbed at the microphone. "What!?"

"John?" Scott sounded bemused at his brother's tone of voice and lack of protocol. "Is everything all right?"

"Ah... Yeah... Sorry, Scott, everything's fine. We were just enjoying an intense conversation, that's all. We, ah, were trying to see if we could guess what Brains' plan is going to be." John glanced back at Gordon who'd shrunk back into his seat and was staring out the window again.

"If you can guess that, you're a better man than me," Scott admitted. "I haven't got any ideas."

"What can we do for you?" John asked the microphone.

"I was just checking up on your progress."

"We're about half an hour out."

"Good. Penny's finally got Brains into her aeroplane and she says they'll be here in a couple of hours."

"We'll all be waiting for them. The sooner I hear Brains' ideas the happier I'll be."

"You and me both, John. Tracy Island out."

John pushed the microphone out of the way. "Sorry about that."

Gordon didn't respond.

"Ah... That offer to listen still stands. If you need longer than half an hour I can always forget where the island is and make a long detour via New Zealand."

Gordon shook his head. "'m 'kay," he mumbled, still gazing out the window.

"Are you sure?"

With a scowl of pure fury Gordon swung around to his brother. "John! I'm...!" Then he took a deep breath to calm down. "I'm okay."

Wondering if he was pushing his luck, John took the _"are you sure"_, which was on his tongue, and replaced it with, "Feel free to tell me to mind my own business, but is everything okay between you and Scott?"

Gordon looked out the window again. "Yeah. We're fine."

Aware that the rift between his two brothers had lasted nearly as long as Gordon's marriage, John bit back another _"are you sure?"_ "Well, if you ever do decide that you want to talk, I don't think I'll be straying too far away over the next four months, except for when I'm on Thunderbird Five."

Gordon managed a wry grin and patted the pilot on the shoulder. "Thanks, Johnny."

He was silent for the rest of the journey.

-I-R-

-F-A-B-

They had a welcoming committee of four when they reached Tracy Island. Feeling almost sorry that he hadn't been able to break through Gordon's self-imposed barrier, John taxied the aeroplane into her hangar.

Gordon was up and out of his seat. "Come on. You need some sun."

The family reunion was as warm as the tropical day after the chill of the hangar.

"Did you both have a good flight?" Tin-Tin asked.

"Yes, fine," John lied. "We had an interesting conversation."

"Scott said you were discussing Doomsday." Alan hoisted a bag onto his shoulder. "Did you come up with a solution to our problem?"

"We came up with _a_ solution," John admitted, with a sideways glance at Gordon. "But it's not very practical."

"I presume I'll be using my old bedroom." Gordon slung his backpack onto his back. "And if anyone's interested, I'm getting a divorce from Marina. Later." He stalked away up the path to the villa.

"What?" Scott exclaimed. "Gor...!"

His chase after his brother was halted by a firm hand on his shoulder. "Leave him, Scott," John advised. "He doesn't need us telling him what he should be doing now."

"Especially since we're not the best examples at how to hold down a relationship," Virgil added and received a querying look from the rest of the group.

Scott suppressed his natural instincts to look after his younger brothers. "You're right. He knows we'll be here for him if he wants to talk about it."

"Yes," John agreed. "He knows."

Deciding that no one was going to be moving any time soon, Alan dropped the bag back onto the ground. "Is he really getting a divorce?"

"That's what he told me," John admitted. "He told Marina that he was calling his lawyer and that she should call hers... But don't mention it to Dad," he warned. "Gordon wants to do that himself, face-to-face."

"Poor Gordon," Tin-Tin sympathised. "He must feel awful."

John nodded. "I think he feels worse than he's letting on..."

Up at the house Gordon opened the door to his room, threw his pack onto a chair, and then, messing up Tin-Tin's carefully made sheets, tumbled onto his bed. He pulled his pillow over his head and tried to block out all his fears and misgivings.

-I-R-

-F-A-B-

If Lady Penelope hadn't been such a lady she would have ground her teeth. What with Brains being so unwilling to leave his laboratory until he'd gleaned every piece of data and research from his computers, Parker's bad back meaning that she'd had to help carry some of Brains' books, her resultant broken fingernail, and this phone call from Ralph, she was nearing the end of her considerable patience.

It wasn't as though she didn't like Lord Ralph Cockburn-Saint-John. He was a thoroughly charming man who took great pleasure out of wooing whichever woman he had set his heart on. The problem, in Lady Penelope's mind, was that he had no spark; no spunk; no drive. He shied from danger. She remembered the furore when he'd gallantly offered to stoke her fire and he'd got a splinter in his finger. Anyone else would have laughed it off, but Ralph behaved as if the splinter was the size of the log and had narrowly missed several vital veins and arteries. For a woman who thrived on the cut and thrust of spying on deadly criminals, the super-cautious Ralph was totally unsuited to her life. The problem was that her cover as one of England's most prominent socialites meant that he wasn't to know that.

She'd waited a discreet amount of time before contacting her former employers and letting them know that she was available for employment. They'd been overjoyed to have her 'back on the books', but she, in contrast, had found her new employers dull, uninspired and, compared to Jeff Tracy, self-centred. She would never admit it, but she missed working for International Rescue and had almost felt relief when they'd been called back into service to save the planet from Doomsday.

Her phone rang the Cockburn-Saint-John concerto again. "Answer that for me would you, Parker," she requested, tightening her grip on the pink control yoke. "I am rather busy at the moment."

"Yes, m'Lady." Parker held the phone to his ear. "Lady Penelope Creighton-Ward's phone," he intoned. "'Ow may H-I 'elp you?" He covered the mouthpiece. "H-It's Lord Raff Cowburn-Sint-John."

"Lord _Raif Coburn-Sinjin_," she corrected. "I ascertained that from the ring. Please tell him that I am piloting FAB4 and I am unable to talk to him at the present time."

"Yes, m'Lady."

"And inform him that, er, something of some importance has developed and I may be out of the country for some time. I shall contact him when I return to England."

"Yes, m'Lady." Parker passed on the message. "Very good, Sir. H-I shall inform 'er Ladyship." He hung up the phone and burst out laughing, garnering an annoyed glance from his mistress. "Lord Co-burn-Sint-Gin wishes you to know that should you need comfort h-in th' Earth's last 'ours, 'e's willin' to 'elp."

"Really!" Lady Penelope huffed. "Him comfort me!? He will probably spend the next four months hiding beneath his Queen Mary counterpane!"

Parker laughed again and Lady Penelope immediately regretted her outburst. It was not her style to denigrate anyone in public, not even to her trusted associate, but she had to admit that Doomsday and everything relating to it was preying on her mind. There was such a lot to consider. Whether or not she would have a role in saving the world; whether or not the Tracy boys would be willing to undertake the task ahead of them; whether or not International Rescue's equipment would be ready; whether or not the man in the back of the aeroplane could come up with a workable solution... "Is Brains still hard at work?"

Parker twisted in his seat and grimaced in pain. Lord Ralph had offered to help him carry Lady Penelope's bags, until he'd discovered how the words 'travel light' didn't exist in her vocabulary. He'd let go of one of her ladyship's larger suitcases and Parker, trying to maintain his hold on his own armload of bags, had pulled a muscle trying to stop it from careering down the steps. Lady Penelope had only just managed to stop herself from sending Cockburn-Saint-John down after her now scarred and battered case in the same uncontrolled manner. "'E's got 'is nose buried."

"I do not know whether to take that as a good sign or not," Lady Penelope mused.

"Shall H-I go h-and h-ask 'im?"

"No. We shall leave the poor boy to carry on with his work... How is your back, Parker?"

"H-I'll live," he admitted. "H-It's arlright so long h-as H-I don't move."

"We shall ask Brains if he has any ointment to help you when we get to Tracy Island."

"H-I don't like to h-interrupt 'im. 'E's got more h-important things to worry about."

But Brains was interrupted. He looked up when another familiar voice filtered through the airwaves and into the pink aeroplane. When he realised that it was only the radio, he returned to his study of the information in front of him.

This was one call that Lady Penelope was more than happy to respond to. The Tracys were the epitome of her idea of masculinity and it was with a warm sense of pleasurable anticipation that she responded to Scott's call. "How are you, dear boy?"

"Impatiently waiting for you to arrive with that precious cargo of yours, Penny. What's your ETA?"

"I anticipate landing on Tracy Island in approximately one hour's time."

Scott chuckled. "We'll have to get Virgil to teach you his secret for calculating the exact time of arrival. Will you need to freshen up when you get here, or do you want to get straight down to business?"

"'Down to business' of course, assuming that Brains is ready."

"Do you think he'll be ready?"

"I do not know," Lady Penelope admitted. "He has not said a word since we boarded."

"Well, if he's not cursing under his breath, we'll take that as a good sign. We'll have a meeting as soon as you get here, Penny. The world is waiting to hear if International Rescue has a solution to Doomsday..."

_To be continued..._


	3. Chapter 3 - Close to Home

It's Friday. Time for...

**Chapter Three: Close to home**

Scott stared down at the pair of legs that stuck out from beneath the digital table. "Haven't you got this thing working yet?"

Alan snickered. "He's so fat he probably can't reach the electronics."

A screwdriver appeared from under the table and made a suggestive gesture.

"Be nice, John," Virgil chuckled. "We've got ladies present."

"Oops. Sorry, Ladies.… Where's Brains?"

"He is still in my aeroplane," Lady Penelope explained. "We decided that we wouldn't disturb him until we were ready to hear what he has to say."

Tin-Tin crouched down beside the table so that she could see underneath it. "Can I help you?"

"Probably," John smiled at her in the shadows. "Can you check that the magdon chip is slotted home correctly?"

Tin-Tin prised a panel off the top edge of the table and, holding a torch as she peered inside, gently prodded a computer chip. "It looks corroded."

"Like the wiring under here. That's the problem with being so close to the sea. Can you replace it?"

"I'll see if there's a useable spare in the storeroom."

"While you do that, can you check if there's any useable wiring?"

"What are the rest of us supposed to do while you lay around?" Alan asked as his wife trotted away on her errand.

John pulled himself out from under the table so that he was able to look up at his youngest brother. "How about making me a cup of coffee? I'm parched." He looked at his watch. "I'm usually on cup number five by now."

"Let me, Mister John," Parker offered. "H-I'm not doin' much standin' 'ere."

"Thanks, Parker." John looked about the room. "Where's Gordon?"

"He hasn't surfaced since he got here," Scott told him. "Not that there's much that he can do until Brains is ready. And Brains won't be ready until you've got this thing working." He tapped the top of table and weird electronic patterns swirled about its surface. "You're not going to electrocute yourself, are you?"

"No." John reassured him. "Not enough power."

"Hasn't anyone here heard of pen and paper?" Virgil asked. "Do we really need the digital table?"

Scott frowned. "We don't all like working with canvas and paint, Gustav."

"It's not Gustav talking," he was informed. "Anyway this table's technology has been superseded."

"I don't care if it came out of the ark," Scott growled. "So long as it works and we can all see Brains' plans. Ah… Here's Tin-Tin."

"Good." John accepted some new wires and wriggled back under the table. A short time later the table top stabilised into the accepted soft hue of green baize.

John crawled out from underneath and brushed his clothes down. "Let's check that it works." He entered a few codes into a keypad and what appeared to be blank pieces of paper appeared at each seat. "What are Tracy Industries' shares doing?" he mused as he tapped the keypad again. A report appeared in front of him, and he studied it closely. "Good. The market's not missing me yet."

"Why don't we get Brains?" Virgil asked. "Will our wristwatch telecoms work now that we're on the island, John?"

John nodded. "They should. Has he got much that needs to be brought out of the plane?"

"'Eaps, Sir," Parker told him, handing him a hot mug.

Virgil put his sunglasses on. "Then we'd better get down there and give him a hand."

"The monorail to the hangar works," Alan said. "It's about the only thing in the place that still does. But we blocked off the spurs to the Thunderbird hangars, so we're going to have to walk between them when we check out the craft."

Scott put his freshly made cup of coffee on the table. "We'll worry about that later. In the meantime let's get Brains up here. Would you mind telling Gordon that we'll be starting soon, Tin-Tin?"

"It would be a pleasure, Scott," Tin-Tin informed him. "This is beginning to feel like old times."

Brains was still deep in studious thought in the passenger cabin of FAB4. He looked up when shadows fell over his computer screen. "S-Scott…? Alan…? John...?" He looked out the window seeing palm trees waving in the gentle zephyr. "Have we landed?"

Alan chuckled. "You landed about an hour ago."

Scott indicated the computer. "Does the fact that you're in full concentration mode mean that you've come up with something?" he asked.

"P-Possibly." Brains started packing all his research and equipment into manageable piles.

"Let me take some." Virgil picked up a large pile of papers.

"Thank you, ah…" His mind still clouded in a fog of facts and figures, Brains stared owlishly at him.

"Believe it or not, that's Virgil," Scott explained, "looking like one of Gustav's paint brushes."

"Oh! Er… Sorry, Virgil."

"It's all right, Brains." Virgil pulled his sunglasses down so that he could look over them. "There are some days I don't recognise me either."

-F-A-B-

"Gordon." Tin-Tin tapped on his door. "We're nearly ready, Gordon."

She was just beginning to wonder if he had heard her, when the door slid back. His hair was a mess, giving the impression that he'd been lying down, and he ran his fingers through it to try to smooth it back into place. "Sorry, Tin-Tin," he apologised, "I've been trying to work out how I'm going to break the news to Dad."

She gave his hand a squeeze. "Just tell him. He'll understand."

"He'll remind me that he told me it would all end in tears if I married Marina." Gordon sighed. "He was right."

"Your father has never been one for recriminations," Tin-Tin reminded him. "Would you like a cup of coffee? I'm going to have to make some more. Everyone else's is getting cold."

He managed a smile. "That's sounds great. Thanks." He wandered into the lounge. "Hi, Penny."

"Hello, Gordon. How are you?"

He fixed her with a wry grin. "I suppose everyone's told you that I'm getting a divorce?"

"Ah…" Lady Penelope hesitated. "It has been mentioned."

"You mean they've been gloating?"

"I think that their attitude is more of sorrow," Lady Penelope corrected. "They are sorry for you."

"If anyone else said that I wouldn't believe them. But since it's you..." Gordon indicated the digital table. "I'm surprised this thing still works." He pulled out a chair and sat down.

"It does thanks to John and Tin-Tin." Lady Penelope smiled at the pretty Eurasian as a coaster and Gordon's coffee was placed at his elbow.

The digital table erupted into a rainbow of static.

"Maybe that's not such a good idea," Gordon suggested, moving his mug to the table's bezel.

Tin-Tin frowned. "That shouldn't happen." She placed her own mug on the table and the surface remained placidly green.

"Odd." Gordon watched as Lady Penelope placed her coaster, cup and saucer on the table, which showed no signs of complaint. "Guess it must be me." He shifted his mug back to its original position.

The table repeated its multi-coloured performance.

Tin-Tin giggled. "It is you, Gordon."

"Everyone's a critic."

There were sounds from the direction of the monorail entrance. Scott was the first to appear, his arms filled with papers. "That was weird. The monorail stopped working of its own accord and then started again."

"Somehow I don't think fixing whatever's wrong with that is going to be a priority over the next few months," Virgil commented. "Do you want these papers on the table, Brains?"

"No. On the coffee table will be fine."

Alan dumped his armload of books onto the table. "We had visions of having to carry all this through the complex… Where's my coffee?" He screwed up his nose. "It's cold."

"I'll get you another," Tin-Tin offered. "Would anyone else like a fresh cup?"

She was back with a tray full of steaming brews by the time Brains had inserted his computer into the slot beneath the digital table, set up the connection between the two pieces of equipment, and got himself ready to explain his findings. He looked at Scott. "Shall I, er, start?"

"It's what we're all here for," Scott reminded him. "We're all dying to know if you have the answer to the world's problem."

A map of the world was displayed across the surface of the table. "As you all know," Brains began, "The SHAKER has predicted that the majority of the world's fault lines are going to, er, create a cataclysmic event in four months time." Red lines appeared on the map showing the length of the impending disaster. "Most of these events are going to happen along recognised tectonic boundaries, such as the Pacific's so called ring of fire." He had a smaller map on the table in front of him and as he circled the Pacific Ocean a corresponding circle appeared on the larger map within view of his friends.

"Right around our home," Alan grumbled.

"As you can see, the fault lines of the Pacific plate and its adjoining plates are close to, if not under, the Pacific Ocean. When Doomsday occurs, not only will these areas along the fault lines suffer from various seismic events, but tsunami will also spread out across the ocean." Blue lines started bleeding out from the red ones through the waters of the world. "The same holds true for most of the world's oceans."

"Any chance the tsunamis would cancel each other out when they met in the middle of the ocean?" John asked.

"Unlikely," Brains admitted. "The meeting of two tsunamic systems would probably compound the energy displacement, rather than diffuse it." The blue lines met and seemingly bounced off each other, reversing their course.

"So any coastal land would be hit by two tsunamis," Lady Penelope surmised, as the blue lines swamped smaller islands and invaded continental coastlines.

Brains looked at her through his thick spectacles. "At least two," he conceded.

"How big are these waves going to be?" Gordon asked, as the blue lines washed far inland.

"Imagine any disaster movie you've seen," Brains advised. "And triple it..." Those around the table stared at him in shock. "Also, with the seismic disturbances of the magnitude we're expecting, the tsunamis could, er, bounce around the globe for days, if not weeks."

"Assumin' the world's still h-in one piece," Parker muttered.

"Earthquakes, as you know," Brains continued, "are caused when the forces caused by friction built up between tectonic plates are released suddenly. The amount of energy released and the depth of that release dictates how violently the 'quake is felt on the Earth's surface." He spied his coffee cup and took a sip.

Everyone waited, knowing that Brains needed to proceed at his own pace. The fact that there was no sign of his stutter showed that he was completely focussed on their discussion.

He set down his cup. "My theory, and I would like to point out that it is only a theory; a hypothesis based on historical data, many calculations, and guesswork... My theory is that if we were to cause the faults to release their energy at an earlier time and at a deeper depth than those predicted, we will reduce the size of the events at the surface. An earthquake may still be felt, but, if my theory is correct, it will not be the cataclysmic event we are all fearing."

Scott steepled his hands in front of him. "Okay. I think we understand the theory. But how do we put it into practise?"

"We will need to bury explosive charges deep into the Earth's surface; timed to detonate in a precise order."

"How deep?" Virgil asked.

"Between twenty and fifty kilometres."

"Fifty kilometres!" Virgil sat back. "The Mole's never gone any deeper than one K!"

"I-I," the first hint of doubt about his plan had ignited Brains' stutter, "I wasn't anticipating any of you physically drilling that f-far into the Earth. I envisage a much smaller drilling device burrowing down before it releases its payload."

"A nuclear explosion?" John asked.

"No. I was considering an acoustic shock. It will be safer to transport the detonator and easier to control the amount of energy released."

Scott was more interested in working on the logistics of the plan. "How are we going to get these 'detonators' down to where they're going to release their payload?"

"These devices will operate in a manner similar to a conventional rocket launching into space," Brains explained. "Not a single-stage self-contained booster spaceship like Thunderbird Three, but one that has booster stages which ignite, give the rocket the necessary push forward, and then fall away." He drew a rough sketch on the table and the image appeared in front of each member of his audience. "But there will be a limit to the propellant such a small device can carry. It will need assistance to start it on its journey into the ground."

Alan stared at the drawing in front of him. "What kind of assistance?"

"We will have to launch the device as far into the Earth as we can; using the equipment we have available. I have calculated the most promising locations on the Earth's surface. These locations have been chosen for their ease of access, as well as proximity to the Earth's centre and to recognised seismic faults."

"Proximity to the Earth's centre?" Virgil queried. "Such as…"

"You're thinking of the Mariana Trench, aren't you!?" Gordon demanded.

"I did o-originally," Brains admitted. "But the Earth is not exactly spherical in shape. It is an oblate spheroid, slightly flattened at the poles and bulging at the equator. The Mariana Trench, at eleven degrees north of the equator, is further from the Earth's core than some locations within the Arctic Circle. These Arctic locations are roughly 40 kilometres closer to the Earth's core and also, because of the Earth's shape, are found in relatively shallow waters. However I have discarded them as potential drilling points as they are too inaccessible due to location and ambient temperatures."

"So you have chosen the Mariana Trench!" Gordon repeated.

Brains nodded. "Where the Pacific Plate is subducted under the Mariana Plate. To be precise, I have decided that the optimum position for launching one of the acoustic concussion generators is at the bottom of the Challenger Deep." On the electronic map, an orange glow off the coast of the Philippines appeared and pulsed gently.

"But that's the deepest known point in the ocean!" Gordon exclaimed.

"I-I am aware of that."

"Thunderbird Four's never gone down that deep!"

"T-True. But we've never tested her to her limits."

"Limits! She'll have to dive at least five thousand fathoms. That's way beyond her theoretical limits!"

"Five thousand fathoms?" Lady Penelope enquired. "How deep is that?"

"Ten to eleven thousand metres!" Gordon spluttered. "Thirty thousand feet!"

"Well," Alan mused. "That's half to a fifth of Brains' hypothetical required distance."

"That's also 100 megapascals of pressure on her hull!"

Virgil gave a low whistle. "That's a lot..."

"A lot! Virgil! That's over 1000 atmospheres!"

"'Scuse me," Parker apologised, "but H-I don't h-understand. Watcha mean 1000 atmospheres?"

"I've heard it described," John explained, "as the equivalent of the weight of 1,600 elephants on every centimetre of your body."

"Oh," Parker mouthed. "Ta."

"We don't even know if she can withstand that kind of pressure!" Gordon slapped his hand on the table. "Especially after seven years of rotting in her pod!"

"I'm sure Brains has taken that into consideration, Gordon." John, noticing that Scott had chosen not to interrupt Gordon's outburst, decided that as second eldest it was his place to take the lead. "Let's hear the mechanics of his plan before we start stressing over the details… Okay?"

Gordon took a deep breath. "Yeah. Okay… Sorry, Brains. I guess I'm getting ahead of myself."

"Not at all, Gordon. I want you all to, er, consider the ramifications of my suggestions."

Virgil leant forward. "So, are you suggesting that Thunderbird Four's going to have to, for want of a better phrase, lay all these charges at various underwater points around the globe?"

"No. We will not have time for that," Brains admitted. "All three detonators will take time to burrow into the Earth's crust. The other two detonators will be, er, launched from the lowest points on the Earth not under water."

"The Dead Sea's the lowest," Parker offered. "H-I remember learnin' about that when I was at school. H-If H-I remember rightly it's 1369 feet below sea level."

"You are quite correct," Brains congratulated him. "In a manner of speaking."

"Huh? Watcha mean?"

Brains didn't elaborate. "I propose that The Mole," he glanced at Virgil, "should bore down into the Dead Sea Transform," another orange dot pulsed on the map, this time next to the Mediterranean, "until it has reached its maximum depth and then launch its acoustic concussion generators further into the Earth."

"Before The Mole gets the heck out of there," Alan muttered.

"Where's the third site, Brains?" Scott asked.

"At a point on the Earth's surface that is even deeper than the Dead Sea. One thousand metres deeper and yet it is not covered by any of the world's seas or oceans. It's a place called the Bentley Subglacial Trench."

"The Bentley Sub-_glacial_ Trench?" Alan echoed. "Never heard of it. Sounds cold."

"It is," Brains agreed. "It is 2540 metres or 8333 feet below sea level and is buried under ice in Antarctica at 80 degrees south, 105 degrees west." An orange dot pulsed on the great white mass at the bottom of the map. "Should the ice melt it would be covered by sea water, which is why the Dead Sea is recognised as being the lowest place on Earth instead of the Bentley Subglacial Trench."

Parker pointed at the map. "But h-it's nowhere near a faultine."

"It's not near a known faultline," Brains corrected. "But, ignoring that issue, my hypothesis is that the sudden disturbance of the Antarctic plate will take, er, the pressure off the neighbouring plates."

"Seems to me you're relying a lot h-on 'ypotheseses."

"Unfortunately, Parker," Brains stared at the older man through his thick spectacles. "That is a-all we've got. This is a new, er, situation for us all."

"If this trench is buried under metres of ice," Scott began. "How are we going to reach it?"

Brains looked at him. "I propose two missiles fired from Thunderbird One in quick succession. One to melt the ice and the second carrying an ACG."

"So I'm going to be strafing a blank, buried target?"

"Yes."

As if it was adding its own perspective on their conversation the digital table sent a psychedelic wave across its screen before settling back into its portrait of the Earth.

"You can't blame me this time," Gordon grumbled. "I wasn't touching it."

"One of the wires must still be loose," John reassured him.

Tin-Tin had more important things to worry about rather than the table. "When do you think we should start operations?"

Brains looked at her over his spectacles. "We will need to deploy the detonators inside three months. That will give them the necessary time to reach their goal and detonate before the faults release their energy of their own accord."

"Three months!"

Virgil was taking notes. "So we're going to need Thunderbirds One, Two, Four, and The Mole. We're going to need Thunderbird Five to facilitate communications between us all, which means we're going to need Thunderbird Three to get to it." He laid down his digital pen. "It's going to take a lot of work to make sure all the craft ready. That's before we even think about starting work on the detonators and Thunderbird One's missiles. Can we do it inside three months?"

There was silence as everyone contemplated the task ahead of them.

"IF we do this," Scott began, "and it's a big if, we're going to have to give it one hundred percent. Who knows what repairs and preparations we're going to have to make before we can even start thinking about undertaking this rescue. Does anyone want to back out now?"

"I think that the fact that we're all here says that we're committed to doing something," Gordon commented, as everyone else shook their heads. "Besides, I've got nothing to go back to." Brains fixed him with a curious look.

"We've got to at least try," Alan added. "What are our options if we don't? Sit back and wait for the world to implode on itself?"

"Sit back?" John started going through the calendar on his smartphone. "Who's got time to sit back? I've got meeting after meeting. There're three on the 27th..."

"I'll need time off to visit my lawyer," Gordon noted. "The sooner I can get divorced from Marina the better, but I want to go and tell Dad in person that I am getting divorced before I do anything else."

John brought up the next date on his calendar. "I've got a couple of important meetings on the 28th..."

"My next race is next month," Alan admitted. "If I miss that, I'll lose all chances of winning the championship."

"I might be able to forgo the meeting on the 29th. Robert can handle that one..."

"My show opens on the 30th," Virgil remembered. "And I've got to be there for all the preparations leading up to it. That'll take a couple of days."

"The 30th!" John exclaimed. "That meeting on the 30th is very important. That's to finalise the Martin contract. Must get Emma to send through the reports..."

"Reports!" Gordon snapped his fingers. "I've got to write up the reports about my last expedition. Chris's been on my back over that."

"That meeting on the 1st is important. I can't miss that…"

Unable to believe what he was hearing, Scott had been listening incredulously to this recital of prior engagements. "Well, excuse me!" he snapped. "We'll just tell everyone that we're too busy to save the world, shall we? Maybe we should ask the planet to not self-destruct until some time when we can all make space on our calendars!?"

What followed was an embarrassed silence.

"I guess I can deal with the lawyer over the phone," Gordon admitted. "At least then I won't have to meet with Marina again. And as for the reports; what are they going to do? Send someone down here to the middle of nowhere to point a gun at my head to force me to write them up?"

"I don't really have to be at the show," Virgil conceded. "My manager will rip me off as usual, and people will go around reading meanings into my paintings that aren't there, but…" He shrugged.

"It's only a car race," Alan accepted. "It's not like it's a matter of life and death if I don't participate." He frowned. "But what excuse can I have for not racing? Just because I've told everyone that I've got this superstition about having my photograph taken during a series, doesn't mean that I haven't got a reasonably high public profile."

"Say you want to spend the planet's final days with your family," Scott suggested. He looked at John who was frowning at his smartphone. "What about you?"

"Don't get me wrong, it's not that I don't want to help out. But it's not that simple…!" At Scott's exasperated sigh, John leant forward. "Look! If I could just drop everything I would! But consider my position, Scott… No. Consider _our _position. _This_," he indicated the smartphone, "is International Rescue's lifeblood. The reason why we had to shut down in the first place was because of the way the markets reacted to Jeff Tracy not being at the helm. They're only just beginning to accept me as someone who's managed to keep the boat on an even keel, and Tracy Industries' values are finally reverting to the levels they were at before Dad had the stroke."

"Which means we have the money to do this," Scott told him.

"Does it? We haven't checked out the state of our equipment yet. For all we know the wings could have fallen off Thunderbird One! We've got to undo seven years worth of decay and neglect inside three months and bring everything up to scratch, and that's going to take more than time and manpower. It's going to take money! Lots of money!"

"Are you saying that we don't have the funds to even try?" Virgil asked.

"No. As things stand I think we'll be okay. But when the markets discover that I've taken leave and that no one named Tracy has taken over Tracy Industries, International Rescue's lifeblood could drain away!" John sat back. "And if you don't consider that a good enough reason, then try this. Dad worked hard to make Tracy Industries the global success that it is. I couldn't be the one to ruin it all for him."

"Then why not put him back at the helm?" Alan suggested.

John stared at him as if he were crazy. "What?!"

"Why not? Obviously you can't give him anything too… Umm..."

"Difficult," Gordon offered.

"I was thinking more along the lines of taxing. Difficult he'd thrive on. We all know that his brain's fine, it's just that his body's not working so well. He needs something to stimulate him and this could be it."

"He wouldn't be able to attend any meetings," Virgil noted. "We can understand him, but complete strangers wouldn't be able to."

"John…" Alan persevered. "Surely there are people you can trust to take on the more difficult bits like meetings? Dad didn't employ idiots or anyone he didn't trust, and I know you haven't either."

John gave a slow nod of agreement, but didn't comment.

Gordon concurred. "Alan's right. Dad's probably bored stuck at home all day. He'd relish the opportunity to take on more responsibility and it would stop him worrying about what we're doing."

"That's a good point," Virgil agreed. "And knowing that we're restarting International Rescue would probably give him a boost. We all know how crushed he was when we said we had to shut it down."

Scott pushed home the winning argument. "And the markets would see that there was still a Tracy at the helm." "And not just _any_ Tracy, but _Jeff_ Tracy!" He stared at his brother who was still gazing at the smartphone as if it held the answers to their problems. "How about it, John? Are you with us?"

John looked at him. "I'll need a day or so to check Dad's willing, and to make arrangements for the transition."

Scott could see that this was a fair compromise. "Good. Then that's done. First thing…"

"What about Stewie?"

Scott froze; staring at Virgil.

"Stewie?" Alan frowned as he looked between his two brothers. "What about him?"

"It's his 17th birthday next week," Virgil explained. "And he's going to be sitting his private pilot's certificate. Were you planning on being there, Scott?"

Scott gave a slow nod. "Yes, I was… But I can't now... Can I?" He ran his hands through his hair. "How am I going to explain it to him?"

"Come with me when I go to talk to Dad," John suggested. "I'd rather you were there to reassure him that we're going to be doing everything properly anyway. Then you can go and see Stewie."

"But what do I say to him? He's been looking forward to this day for years…" Scott slumped in his chair. "And so have I. And I can't go and do what's important to me when I've just told you guys you can't do what's important to you!"

"I think we'll get over it," Virgil reassured him.

Alan grinned. "Just as long as you don't stay until after the party."

"Go, Scott," Gordon told him. "Wish Stewie good luck and a happy birthday from us all."

Scott thought for a moment. "No," he decided. "We're all going to go and tell Father tomorrow. We'll give ourselves one day to get the rest of our lives in order before we commit ourselves to re-launching International Rescue."

"Can we spare the time?" John asked. "We're going to be working to a tight schedule."

Virgil indicated his notes. "It'll give us a chance to get some supplies. Then we can make a start on minor repairs while we wait for the bigger items to be freighted in."

"What about Kasey, Virgil?" Tin-Tin asked. "What is she going to think about you disappearing into the middle of the Pacific Ocean for three months?"

Virgil pretended to be more interested in his notes. "Kasey's not part of the picture now."

"What!" Everyone stared at him.

Everyone except Scott who helped to deflect their attention away from his brother. "If anyone's interested, Farrah and I aren't together any more either."

John switched his focus to his elder brother. "Is that why...?"

"Getting back to more important things," Scott interrupted. "Once we've checked the state of the equipment, we will fly out."

"Do I take this to mean that you are all serious about reforming International Rescue?" Lady Penelope asked.

"Yeah," Parker added. "H-It sounds dangerous, h-even compared to what you did before you h-all disbanded. What with missiles, an' detonatin' bombs underground, an' divin' down to the depths, an' all."

Scott shrugged. "Like Alan said before, what choice do we have? Now, order of priority. We'll start by working on Thunderbird Three..."

"Thunderbird Three?!" Gordon stared at him.

"Yes."

"What about Thunderbird Four?"

"We will work on Four once we've checked over Thunderbird Three…"

That wasn't good enough for Gordon. "Thunderbird Four should have top priority!"

"Thunderbird Four _is_ a high priority," Scott admitted, "but we need Thunderbird Th..."

"If I'm going to have over 100 megapascals of pressure on me then I'll need to know that Four's hull can withstand it!"

"We all need to know that Thunderbird Four's hull won't be compromised," Scott soothed. "Don't worry, Gordon..."

"Don't patronise me!" Gordon's chair went flying as, furious with his eldest brother, he leapt to his feet.

Scott flinched. "I wasn't…"

"That deep in the water with that much pressure on her, Thunderbird Four could be crushed like an egg! With me in it! Is that what you want, Scott?!"

Uncomfortable by the way the exchange was heating up; the others pretended to make notes on their digital papers.

"No! Of course not." Scott could feel the situation slipping out of his control and knew that the last thing International Rescue needed was for Gordon and him to have another falling out. "Trust me, Gordon, we'll do all we can to preven…"

But Gordon wasn't in the mood to listen. "Even Thunderbird Two's going to be more important than Thunderbird Three! Right, Virgil?"

Virgil, looking like he'd rather not be dragged into the argument, gazed at the wall.

"Both Thunderbirds Four and Two should have a higher priority than Thunderbird Three! We'll only be using her as a taxi!"

Knowing that to speak now would only inflame the situation, Alan bit his tongue.

"You are right, Gordon," Scott agreed. "As far as the actual mission is concerned, Thunderbird Three isn't important. But she's still got a high priority because…"

Gordon pushed himself away from the table and, breathing heavily, stalked over to the window so he could look out over the calming Pacific Ocean.

"Gordon…" John got to his feet and walked over to his brother's side. "Scott knows how important it is to make sure that Thunderbird Four can withstand all that pressure. We all do. None of us want to see you risk your neck any more than necessary."

Gordon grunted.

Taking this as a good sign and keeping his voice quiet and soothing, John continued to speak. "Just like we all know it's important that each of our Thunderbirds and The Mole are going to be able to do what we ask of them."

Immensely grateful for John's intervention, Scott took a chance that Gordon wasn't going to fly off the handle at him again. "We're all going to be taking a risk and none of us wants to see the others in any danger. But, Gordon, you know none of us is going to be able to do anything without good communications!"

"I know," Gordon grumbled.

"And for that we need to know that Thunderbird Five's operational."

Gordon clenched his fist against the glass. "I know," he said again, his voice almost a whisper. He pressed his forehead against the cool windowpane.

"And we're not going to find that out until we get to the space station."

John drove home the final argument. "And to get there we need Thunderbird Three."

"I know," Gordon repeated.

"With any luck Thunderbird Three won't need a lot done to her and we can start work straight away on our next highest priority, Thunderbird Four." Scott shared a look with John that said that Thunderbird Five was probably a higher priority, but didn't articulate the fact.

John placed his hand on his brother's shoulder. "Are you ready to sit down again?"

Gordon heaved a sigh. "Yeah." He reclaimed his seat. "Sorry." Avoiding everyone else's eyes, he didn't speak again throughout the rest of the meeting.

Scott made a note on his digital paper. "Anyone else want to say anything?"

"Yes," Virgil nodded towards the wall. "I think we're going to have to get new portraits."

"Oh, for Pete's sake!" Scott, having had enough of his brothers' idiosyncrasies, threw his pen down in disgust. "Gustav, leave!" he snapped. "We'd like Virgil's input here."

Virgil fixed him with a level stare. "And you're getting it. What I mean is that we were younger and a lot fitter when we started International Rescue. We've been trying to work out if we can get our equipment operational in time, but what about us?" He looked at his brothers. "Are any of you as fit as you were when those portraits were created? I know I'm not. I've been jogging through Central Park every day, but I'll freely admit that I'm not in the same shape that I was when we started."

"And some of us have even more shape than we had when we started," Alan prodded John's slightly rounded midriff. John knocked his hand away.

"Do you think we're wasting our time, Virgil?" Scott asked.

"No," Virgil responded. "But I do think we've got more work ahead of us than we realise. We've got to get the equipment ready and we've got to prepare ourselves as well. And I'm not talking about only physically, but also mentally. Can you imagine any of us putting other aspects of our lives before International Rescue eight years ago?"

"No," Alan admitted. "Eight years ago International Rescue was our lives."

"At least John has a non-physical role," Tin-Tin offered. "And you'll be able to spend your spare moments working out in Thunderbird Five's gym."

"But I need to be fitter than I am for space flight," John admitted. "And so that I can help everyone get the equipment ready. I've got to pull my weight... Pun not intended…"

He sighed. "When I started working at Tracy Industries I was determined that I wasn't going to become just another fat corporate body. I had every intention of going to the company gym every morning, but I felt like everyone was staring at me. _Oh, look. There's the new boss, Jeff Tracy's son._" He shrugged. "You've got to admit that as Space Monitor I didn't exactly get endless opportunities for socialising. I wasn't used to being surrounded by large groups of people. So since a public gym wasn't for me, and work meant that I didn't have a lot of spare time to work out in my apartment, I decided that I'd take the stairs to and from my office every day. But every day I seemed to have a meeting at eight o'clock, which meant that I didn't have time to take the stairs. So I didn't..." he confessed. "I haven't exercised in months."

"Well, you're going to start now," Scott promised. "We're all going to start a regular fitness programme. Gordon, do you want to coordinate that?"

Gordon, his eyes still down, nodded.

"Thanks... Now, let's see…" Scott made a note on his digital pad. "Personnel allocations seem pretty straight-forward. We'll need full communications, so John you'll be manning Thunderbird Five. I'll be using Thunderbird One to strafe the Bentley Subglacial Trench. Gordon will have to do the Mariana Trench deployment, leaving Virgil and Alan to man The Mole in the Dead Sea…"

Tin-Tin grasped her husband's hand "Is it going to be possible to get the Thunderbirds up to operational standard in only three months?"

"We won't know until we see them," Scott admitted.

"Then I suppose we should go and take a look." Virgil pressed home a full stop on his digital page.

No one moved. They all sat there, waiting for one of the others to make the first move.

Realising that they'd reached an impasse, Lady Penelope asked, "Could the Thunderbirds have deteriorated at all, Brains?"

He gave a slow nod. "Without c-continual maintenance, such as they received when International Rescue was operational, yes."

"Lummee," Parker muttered.

"Externally Thunderbird Three looks okay." Alan shrank back when his brothers' eyes turned on him.

"How do you know that?" Scott demanded. "We sealed up all access to the hangars!"

"Ah..." Alan cast a furtive look at his wife. "When I, um, realised that we might be restarting operations, I, er, opened up the walkway from the lab to Three's launch bay... Ah... To save ti..."

The digital table started its disco lighting act again. Only this time it was accompanied by a shimmer that sashayed through the room, sending little tsunamis dancing in their coffee cups. The oriental wind chime on the far wall started to tinkle as windows rattled in their frames.

"What the..." Scott looked up to see one of the books on his father's shelf slide down its neighbour. "Earthquake?"

The shimmering stopped and the digital display returned to its normal utilitarian image.

The map on the table top disappeared as Brains replaced it with a seismographic readout. "Oh."

"Oh!?" Alan exclaimed. "What the heck does _Oh_ mean? The quakes aren't supposed to start for another four months!"

"W-we are presently on a volcano, Alan."

"I'm aware of that, Brains, I've lived here for a large part of my life. But it's supposed to be extinct. The whole volcanic field's moved away from here over the millennia... Hasn't it?"

"Alan's right," Tin-Tin agreed. "I thought it was now under the Kermadec Trench."

"We are still sitting on a highly active plate," Brains explained. "Magma is rising beneath Tracy Island."

Alan frowned. "Meaning our home is going to erupt at any time?"

"Not any time..." Brains clarified. "A-Approximately three months."

His announcement was met with exclamations from all around the table. "Three months!"

"It can't erupt in three months!" Scott insisted. "That's when we're going to be dispersed all around the planet. We won't be able to do anything to stop it...!"

"Assuming we can," Virgil added.

"I-I can not exactly say that the eruption will occur in three months. This programme isn't as advanced as the SHAKER. It may be l-later."

"Or earlier?"

"Yes."

"Great!" Alan threw his pen onto the table. "We're not only going to be working under pressure, we're going to be living and working on a pressure cooker."

"Would it be possible to move your centre of operations elsewhere?" Lady Penelope asked.

"We could," Scott admitted. "But that would take time. Time we don't have."

John ran his hand through his hair. "Is this eruption linked to Doomsday?"

"Yes," Brains confirmed.

"Then why is this eruption predicted to happen one month earlier than Doomsday?" Virgil demanded. "Have we got our facts wrong? Are we going to have to bring our plans forward one month?" He slumped back in his chair. "We may as well give up now."

"You know it's an i-inexact science, Virgil, but I believe that the predictions for Doomsday are correct. This eruption, and any others around the globe," the map returned to the table top, "are merely, er, an overture."

"I don't think much of the opera."

Lady Penelope had been studying the map. "Could there be unexpected volcanic eruptions elsewhere in the world?"

"Yes. B-But they will be localised enough that people will be able to be evacuated."

"Brains. Can you give us your honest opinion," Scott begged. "Is there any point us recommissioning International Rescue?"

Brains fixed him with an earnest stare. "Scott. Every mission you and your brothers undertook carried an e-element of uncertainty. The reason why International Rescue were called in was because the odds had been against the people you rescued. This time is no different."

"But every time International Rescue at least had a slim chance of success. What chance have we got this time?"

Brains' stare was unwavering. "A slim one."

Everyone was silent as they absorbed what he was saying.

Gordon pushed his chair back and got to his feet. "Well, what are we sitting here for? The longer we wait, the slimmer our chances get. Let's go see priority number one."

-F-A-B-

Thunderbird Three stood in her launch bay, her nosecone pointing towards an almost impervious plug of cahelium, concrete, and rock.

John gazed up at the gigantic number three. "I never thought I'd be looking at a Thunderbird again." He patted one of the boosters. "Let alone touching one."

Scott circled the giant spaceship. "You're right, Alan. She does look in good shape."

"But what about the engines?" Virgil asked, bringing Thunderbird Three's schematics up on his tablet computer. "And the electronics? And the internal structures?"

Gordon made an irritated noise. "Glad to hear you're starting the challenge with a positive frame of mind, Virg."

"We've increased the power plant's output," Tin-Tin offered. "It should nearly be at full capacity by now. We'll be able to run the diagnostic programmes on all the Thunderbirds."

Scott stared up at one of Thunderbird Three's firmly sealed hatches. "Once we get inside. How do we do that without causing too much structural damage, Brains?"

The engineer actually smirked. "I foresaw the day when y-you all would want to relaunch International Rescue," he admitted, and the brothers exchanged mystified looks as he reached into the bag that he'd brought with him. "I-It's taken longer than I, er, anticipated, but I had planned for that eventuality."

"How," Gordon queried, "had you planned for 'that eventuality'? And why?"

"After s-seven years of International Rescue, I c-couldn't see any of you being happy in 'mainstream' jobs long-term." Brains pulled out a box about the size of a pack of cards. "So when we sealed all the Thunderbirds' hatches I laid a s-strip of seizeite around each entrance first. It helped to seal the hatch, until the trigger's placed in a certain spot." He indicated the box.

"But the whole point of sealing the hatches was so that no one could ever get access to the Thunderbirds," Scott reminded him.

"Then why didn't you destroy them?" Brains enquired.

The brothers glanced at one another.

Scott was determined not to be sidetracked. "You deliberately installed a method of opening them? What if someone, not us, tried to break in?"

"Firstly, only I knew about the s-seizeite," Brains told him.

"That's true," Virgil conceded. "This is the first we've heard about it."

"Secondly, the seizeite is hidden b-beneath the seals you all installed," Brains continued. "It is not, ah, visible to anyone unaware of its existence. Thirdly, the seizeite actually aids in sealing the hatch until such time as the release mechanism is engaged. And finally," grinning, he pulled the twin antennas from out of the box, "y-you have to have the exact trigger for each Thunderbird, and know exactly where to position it. Only I know these secrets."

John gave Lady Penelope a sideways look. "Sounds to me like you've been a bad influence on him."

"Or a good one?" Lady Penelope's silvery laugh wafted through the little group. "I am beginning to believe that Brains has missed his calling."

"Never mind all that," Gordon said impatiently. "Let's open her up. What do we do, Brains?"

"I need to be able to place this trigger up there." Brains pointed to the airlock that had formerly been the portal through which the couches had passed on the hydraulic ram.

They looked upwards, craning their necks to see the patch at the bottom of the nacelle where the entrance hatch used to be.

"'Ow are you goin' to get h-up there?" Parker asked.

It was a reasonable question.

"Jetpacks?" Gordon suggested. "There should be some stored down the tunnel." He pointed into the gloom that contained the tracks the couch had travelled from beneath the lounge.

"All the jetpacks have been deteriorating for seven years," Virgil responded. "I'm not prepared to use any of them until they've been fully checked over, and they're going to be a low priority. But I'm willing to trust something as low tech as a ladder. Is there still one in the storerooms?"

"Yes," Tin-Tin watched as her husband circled Thunderbird Three slowly. "We use it for cleaning out the guttering."

"A ladder's not going to be long enough," Gordon scoffed. "We need something with a higher reach."

"What about the scissor-lift?" Tin-Tin suggested. "Assuming that it still works, there should be enough power to operate it."

"The woman has brains," Scott admitted. "Which is more than can be said for the rest of us. Let's go and check it out, Fellas."

Most of the Tracys hurried out of the hangar, following the rails that had conveyed the couches between their destinations.

"H-I don't think H-I've h-ever been this close to Thunderbird Three, m'Lady," Parker admitted as he admired the orange craft before him. "H-It's 'uge!"

"It is indeed," she agreed. "I have seen it launch, but I have never been close enough to touch it."

"What do you think? Can they get H-International Rescue goin' h-again?"

"I think they are going to try. And I think they are the world's only hope."

On the far side of the launch bay, Alan was lost in thought as he stared up at his rocket. Tin-Tin slipped her arm through his. "What are you thinking, Alan?"

"Huh? Oh... Just thinking."

"Are you excited that you're going to be flying Thunderbird Three again?"

"I don't know," he admitted. "I thought this part of my life..." he gave a guilty smile, "I mean _our_ life was over. Brains might have believed we'd restart International Rescue one day, but I never did. I think I'm kind of in shock."

"I knew you'd come back to it."

Alan stared at her. "You did?"

"Yes."

Animated talking over a mechanical whine could be heard growing louder and Alan's brothers, riding along the rails, reappeared in the launch bay.

"Virgil wants to cut out the couch in the lounge," Gordon announced, swinging himself down from the scissor-lift.

"It'd save carrying things right through the complex," Virgil grunted as he descended the platform's ladder to the ground. "Are you going up, Brains, or do you want one of us to do it?"

"I-I'll do it. I kn-know where the trigger goes." Brains pocketed the item in question and then, with more assuredness than would have been expected of someone who spent his life cooped up in a laboratory, climbed the ladder and attached his safety harness to the protective cage. "S-Send me up, S-Scott." The others watched as he rose on the hydraulic ram to just below the nacelle, carefully stuck the trigger to the edge of where the hatch was concealed, and then descended again.

As Virgil trundled the scissor lift out of harm's way down the tunnel, Brains took another box out of his bag. Entering a code caused a rainbow of lights to run up one side of the box, until only the orange one remained lit and the number three showed on the display. "Good. The trigger has been armed."

A safe distance away from the explosion down the passage, the group huddled together to await Brains' next instruction. He held out the detonator. "Would you like the privilege, Alan?"

Alan smiled. "Thanks, Brains."

"Push that button and the seizeite should release the hatch."

"I think I can manage that." Alan looked around the group, his palms suddenly sweaty. "Everyone ready?"

Scott smiled at him. "We're ready, Alan. Let 'er rip."

Alan pressed the button and there was an almost disappointingly small explosion from the launch bay. They gave the air a moment to clear and then walked back into the cavernous hangar.

The seal lay on the floor beneath a clean, rectangular hole in Thunderbird Three's base. "C'mon, Fellas," Scott commanded. "Let's get moving."

John looked up towards the emergency ladder that ascended the length of Thunderbird Three's entry tunnel. "It's going to be a long climb."

"Don't you think you'll be able to do it?" Gordon challenged.

"Just try and stop me... You first, Alan."

"Right." Alan donned a headlamp torch and clambered onto the scissor-lift. "Who else is coming?"

"If you don't mind, I think I'll wait here," Lady Penelope offered. "Unfortunately I am not wearing the proper shoes for ascending ladders."

"H-I'll wait with you, m'Lady," Parker offered, relieved that he was not expected to clamber up several hundred rungs after his mistress.

Brains looked about him. "I will inspect Thunderbird Three when we have reinstated the e-elevator. In the meantime I will start an inventory of what supplies we h-have available to us."

Virgil slipped his computer into a pouch and slung it across his back. "I'll take notes for you, Brains."

"Thank you."

Scott was the last to climb onto the platform. "Are you coming, Tin-Tin?"

"No. I shall explore around here with Brains. We need to know what we have that is still usable and what we will need to purchase."

Once they'd ascended to the entrance hatch the real work started. It was a long climb, over half the length of Thunderbird Three until they finally emerged at the top of the entry tunnel. There, headlamp torches shining beams into the darkness, they looked about them.

Virgil stretched his arms. "I've got to start pumping something with more resistance than a paintbrush."

John had hauled himself out of the entry tunnel and collapsed onto the floor so that he was able to use the bulkhead as a backrest. "I know I'm out of shape, but this is ridiculous! Gordon, I'm first priority in your exercise regime."

Gordon crouched next to his brother. "Starting with something not too strenuous, huh?"

John managed a smile. "I'd appreciate that. Build me up to ultra-marathon standard slowly."

Scott shone his torch on to the pair of them. "We've still got to climb up to the control room. Are you coming with us, John?"

John flapped a weary hand. "You guys go on ahead." He looked around at the life-support and other electrical systems. "I've got plenty to keep me occupied here."

Scott looked at Virgil. "How about you? Are you up to another climb?"

Virgil grinned. "I'll be right behind you."

They climbed again, bypassing the sleeping quarters and storage bay, until they finally reached the main control room.

Alan shone his torch about the room. "She's not looking too bad..." He ran his fingers along the top of the flight console. "Not too much dust." His torch fell on a button on the console. "I suppose it would be too much to ask for there to be some power left in the batteries." He pressed the button and, as though she were taking a long time to awake from sleep, Thunderbird Three's cabin lights resurrected themselves.

"At last!" Scott exclaimed. "Something's going in our favour." His watch beeped at him. "John?"

"Look's like Thunderbird Three's still got some life left in her."

"Yeah. We've got to hand it to Brains. When he builds something, he builds it to last."

"Don't speak too soon," Gordon warned as the lights flickered, before settling into a luminous glow akin to several candles.

"It's better than nothing." Virgil unslung the tablet computer. "How does it feel to be back in Thunderbird Three, Alan?"

"The honest truth? Weird."

"Yes," Scott agreed. "It does feel weird."

"Let's hope she's got enough power to run the diagnostic programmes." Virgil plugged the computer into the flight console and watched the tablet's screen as a series of numbers scrolled downwards.

Drained of their precious energy, the lights dimmed some more.

Alan, sitting in his old control seat, lightly caressed the console. "Come on, Baby. Don't give up on us now. Not when we need you more than we ever have before."

"Easy, Alan," Scott's wristwatch warned. "I know that the lighting's romantic in here, but what's Tin-Tin going to say when she discovers that you've got another love interest?"

"Are you doing anything constructive, John?" Scott asked his watch. "Or are you just eavesdropping on our conversation?"

"I'm being very constructive. Now that I don't have to hang on to the flashlight, I can see that we've got some corroded wiring down here."

"That may not be an issue," Scott reminded him. "If we're only using Thunderbird Three to ferry you to Thunderbird Five, I doubt we're going to need the portable radio safety beam transmitter console."

"Just being a good Boy Scout and being prepared in case we're thrown a curve ball." John, enjoying doing something that didn't involve endless paperwork, was sounding almost obscenely cheerful.

Virgil disconnected the computer. "I think we've got enough information for Brains in the short term. Shall we move on?"

"Which Thunderbird are we going to check out next?" Gordon asked.

Cautious, in case he set off another eruption, Scott thought briefly. "We'll let Brains make that decision; just in case he's got any other little surprises up his sleeve. If he doesn't, I think Thunderbird One's going to be the easiest to access." He waited to see if there were any complaints from the pilots of Thunderbirds Four and Two.

Gordon and Virgil made no comment.

-F-A-B-

Brains hadn't made contingencies for breaking into any of the hangars and that was why the Tracys and their friends found themselves back in the lounge, staring at a pair of light fittings.

"Whatever we do, it's going to mean putting a hole in the wall," Gordon commented. "Why don't we just get some sledgehammers?"

John had collapsed onto one of the couches. "Planning on taking your anger at Marina out on the wall are you?" he asked.

"I'm not mad at her. I just don't love her anymore."

"Surely we've got something a bit more high-tech than sledgehammers," Alan stated. "We are International Rescue. We were supposed to have the most advanced equipment in the world."

"How about oxyhydnite?" Tin-Tin suggested. "Brains and I found two cylinders."

Scott and Virgil grinned at each other. "Oxyhydnite!"

"You know what happened to you two the first time you used it," Gordon warned.

"And once Brains had worked out how to stop us passing out, there was nothing better at cutting through walls," Virgil reminded him. "Where are these cylinders, Tin-Tin?"

"We brought them up to Brains' lab."

"Right!" Scott rubbed his hands together. "Let's go get 'em."

He was almost feeling excited when, once again kitted out in his full face mask and with a cylinder of oxyhydnite strapped to his back, he faced the wall that stood between him and Thunderbird One. "All ready?" he checked. "Is your hood sealed correctly?"

He felt a feeling of déjà vu as Virgil smiled back at him; his brother's mask hiding the blue hair and goatee. "Yep."

"Then let's do it!" Scott lit the end of the oxyhydnite wand. Seconds later he'd cut an outline big enough for them to walk through. He switched off the gas and then removed his mask. He wiped his face, wet from the heat of the mask and excitement, on his sleeve.

Alerted by the lack of noise, Gordon stuck his head into the room. "Is it safe?"

"It's safe," Scott confirmed.

"Then get that wall out of the way and let's see her!"

Together Scott and Virgil put their shoulders to the wall and pushed. The wall resisted, budged and then fell into Thunderbird One's hangar; a cloud of dust heralding anyone's first sighting of International Rescue's rocket plane in seven years.

"After you." Virgil stood back to let his brother take their first steps into the hangar.

"Thanks." Scott accepted the offer and stepped up onto the remains of the wall.

Then he froze.

"Scott? What's...?" Virgil pushed past the human obstacle. "Oh, heck."

At first glance, Thunderbird One seemed intact. She stood on her trolley as if she were waiting to be transported down beneath the swimming pool before being launched into her role as the fastest aeroplane in the world.

Then you noticed the wing.

The port wing, to be exact. At some point over the last seven years, possibly during an earlier earth tremor, the wing had found a life of its own and had sprung outwards, crumpling itself against the concrete wall of the hangar.

Gordon stepped up to the handrail and surveyed the damage. "I guess Thunderbird Three's been bumped down the priority list."

Virgil leant over the rail and tried to get a closer look. "We're going to have to replace the entire wing."

"And the hydraulics," Scott added gloomily. "And who knows what else."

"Cheer up." John put his arm about his brother's shoulders. "If that's the only problem we've got, we'll be able to fix it in no time. Right, Brains?"

Brains, making rapid notes into his tablet computer, made no comment.

"Check the cockpit," Tin-Tin suggested. "Then we can run the diagnostic programme."

Scott pulled himself together. "You said you had the power plant up to full capacity, Tin-Tin?"

"Yes, that's right."

"Good." Scott marched over to a manual override switch. "Are you ready to go across to open her up, Brains?"

Brains' indicated Thunderbird One's trigger. "I-I am." He stepped onto the gantry platform.

Scott lifted the cover protecting the manual override and flicked the switch. Slowly, surely, almost miraculously, Brains moved out over the gap between the little group and the Thunderbird. He checked his computer, measured a distance down the right side of where the entrance hatch had been and then placed the trigger onto that spot on the hull. "Bring me b-back, Scott."

He joined everyone else in the lounge.

Virgil frowned at the gap in the wall that he and Scott had cut less than twenty minutes earlier. "Is there any chance that the seizeite will blow the hatch into here?" He eyed up the possible trajectory of a sizeable rectangle of reinforced metal. "It could take out Father's desk."

"U-Unlikely, Virgil. The explosive quality of seizeite is very localised." Brains held out the detonator to Scott. "Your turn?"

"Yeah, why not." Scott accepted the detonator and with no hesitation, pressed the button. There was a popping followed by a rattling sound. "I hope the hatch didn't take out anything important when it fell." He handed the detonator back to Brains than then approached the hole in the wall. Looking through he could see right into Thunderbird One. "She looks okay from here."

"But how does she look from inside?" Gordon asked. "Go across, Scott. I'll operate the gantry."

"Thanks, Gordon... Anyone want to come with me?"

"I will," Virgil offered. "Brains?"

Brains joined them on the short trip. When they reached the cockpit he looked about him. "On the, er, surface she looks intact."

"Yes," Scott agreed. "She doesn't look too bad." He leant on his pilot's seat and it toppled backwards. He muttered something under his breath.

Virgil crouched down so he could see the gimballed mechanism. "That's not a major. Some of the bolts have corroded through. It'll only take seconds to replace them."

"She's been in a hangar sealed against moisture, dust, and outside interference for seven years, Virgil. What possibly could have corroded them? And if they're corroded, what else is?"

"H-Hopefully we're about to find out," Brains offered, as he plugged his tablet computer into Thunderbird One's main console.

The screen remained blank.

Slightly down-heartened they travelled back and met the rest of the group in the lounge.

"Well?" Tin-Tin demanded. "What did the diagnostic programme say?"

Brains indicated his computer. "It didn't work."

"There wasn't enough juice," Virgil diagnosed. "Thunderbird Three's larger batteries must have held their charge for longer than One's. One of the first things we're going to have to do is unseal the power connections so we can charge up all the Thunderbirds' batteries. Once we've done that we'll have some idea what we're up against and we'll hopefully find it's not as bad as we fear."

Scott patted him on the back. "I appreciate your optimism. Now do you feel up to seeing Thunderbird Two?"

-F-A-B-

Thunderbird Two's hangar was going to be the hardest nut to crack. Their options were to take the pilot's chute down from the lounge, with no guarantees that whoever or whatever slid down it wouldn't end up splattered all over the hangar floor; cutting through more obstacles than there were doors under the Thompson Tower as they followed the long circuitous route along the monorail track; or to cut through the back wall of the conventional aeroplane hangar into the cliff face.

They chose the last option.

Once again the oxyhydnite had been put into use, carving through the basalt rock that concealed the mega-hangar that housed International Rescue's heavy-duty equipment.

"There," Gordon grunted as he shoved a jack into position. "One nudge from that and we'll be inside."

"Give it a nudge then," Virgil suggested as he replaced his oxyhydnite mask with a pair of sunglasses.

Scott gave an exasperated sigh. "For Pete's sake, Gustav. Go home!"

"The glare from the oxyhydnite torch was a bit bright," Virgil explained. "I'm resting my eyes."

"What?" Alan stared at him in bewilderment. "You're going to be entering a dark cavern and you're resting your eyes?"

"The power is on in Thunderbird Two's hangar," Tin-Tin reminded him. "It won't be dark."

Gordon activated the jack and the section of the rock face fell inwards, revealing a black hole. "Looks pretty dark to me."

Virgil shone his torch inside. "I can't see anything." He shone the beam onto the displaced wall and took a cautious step forward.

"No wonder you can't see anything if you're wearing sunglasses," Scott grumbled. "Where's the power switch?" He felt his way along the interior wall and pulled down a large lever. The sudden illumination of the cavernous hangar after the near total darkness left most of them blinking against the bright light.

Then they saw Thunderbird Two.

"Strewth," Parker cursed.

Gordon stared in disbelief. "I think we've found a new candidate for priority number one."

When the Tracys had made the decision to decommission the Thunderbirds they had agonised over what to do with Thunderbird Two. The two options had been to leave her sitting on the hangar floor or standing on her hydraulic legs. In the end they'd decided to leave her standing; the theory being that if anyone did discover her hiding place, it would make it harder for the intruders to gain access to the powerful aircraft.

It had been a mistake as nearly as big as Thunderbird Two herself.

Her front port leg had collapsed and she leant at a drunken angle with her nose pointing towards the ground. Her other three legs, unable to hold the huge weight of the transporter, showed signs of buckling.

"Gordon's right," Scott confirmed. "Two's our main priority in the short term. No one's going near her until we've got her stabilised and we've got to do that A.S.A.P. before she collapses any further."

"Hopefully the gantry crane will, er, still be operational," Brains mused. "We will have to use it to support the weight of Th-Thunderbird Two and remove the legs before we lower her to the ground."

"Why don't we use the elevator cars to support her?" Gordon suggested.

"The elevator cars..." Scott nodded his approval. "That's not a stupid idea."

"I have been known to have sensible ideas sometimes."

Lady Penelope looked at the sombre man standing next to her, his emotions hidden behind his sunglasses as he gazed at the aeroplane that had once been his pride and joy. "Did you anticipate this?"

Virgil removed the glasses. "I thought there may have been a possibility. Especially with those earth tremors."

"How long will it take to replace the legs?" John queried.

"D-Depends on how much damage has been done," Brains responded.

"Roughly?"

"Roughly...? Er..."

"How ever long it takes, it's going to take time," Scott interrupted.

"Then stop talking, Scott, and tell us what to do!" Gordon demanded. "Let's get that crane operational and get those elevator cars out here!" Giving Thunderbird Two a wide berth, he hurried towards the pod vehicle storage bays. "C'mon!"

Bewildered Virgil watched his brother's departure. "But what about Thunderbird Four?"

Gordon turned, still walking backwards. "Don't worry about Thunderbird Four, we can check on her later. She's not going anywhere if we can't use Thunderbird Two." He resumed his trek.

"Gordon! Wait!" Scott ordered, jogging after him.

"What!" Gordon rounded on him.

Scott skidded to a stop, aware of the anger in his brother's voice and the furious flush to his face. "Uh... Let's get some sort of plan sorted before we go off half-cocked, okay?"

"We're wasting time, Scott!"

"Not if we do this properly. Virgil, you take control of the crane."

"Right."

"In this confined area I'd rather use the manual controls instead of the remote, so the rest of us will take an elevator car each. Gordon, you get car two and stabilise the front starboard side."

Muttering something about how some people seemed to think that they were all stupid when they quite were capable of working things out for themselves, Gordon agreed.

"John. You've got car three and you can take care of the rear starboard end..."

"Okay."

"Alan. Car four and rear port side."

"Done."

"I'll take the master car and..."

Tin-Tin folded her arms. "Wait until Brains has opened the elevator cars and they've been refuelled."

Scott, keyed up by the idea of doing something practical, sagged. "For a moment there I forgot everything had been decommissioned." He sighed. "Okay. Virgil, do you want to check the crane over, while we open the elevator cars? We may as well take a look at Thunderbird Four while we're at it."

"Okay." Virgil pocketed his sunglasses.

"Can I borrow your shades?" Gordon asked.

"Borrow them?" Virgil looked surprised as he handed them over. "You can if you want. But why?"

"The light in Pod Four might be a bit bright after being in this mausoleum." Gordon leant closer. "And I'd hate for anyone to see a grown man cry," he whispered.

Virgil gave him a sympathetic pat on the back. "I hope you won't need them." He indicated his wristwatch. "Let me know how she is."

At first glance Thunderbird Four looked to be in good shape. Then Gordon noticed the faint white tinge to her yellow paintwork. "Oh, no."

"What is it?" Lady Penelope asked. "It looks like a type of mildew." She ran her fingers across the hull. "The surface feels corroded."

"It is. The white discolouration is scale," Gordon told her.

"Scale?"

"Metal corrosion caused by oxidation. Like rust."

"That don't sound good." Parker touched the metalwork. "Don't feel it neither."

"It's not." Gordon circled his submarine, casting a critical eye over every joint and rivet.

From the main hangar they could hear the sound of an engine coming to life for the first time in seven years.

"I'm sorry, Gordon," Scott apologised. "I thought we'd thoroughly washed her down."

"Yes." Alan frowned. "Didn't we paint her with anti-fouling paint afterwards? Why didn't that work?"

Gordon finished his circuit. "Don't worry about it. Apart from the scale she looks in good shape. I'll give her a quick coat of anti-corrosive now to prevent further damage, and then we can come back to her later. Do you guys want to go and make a start on breaking into the elevator cars?"

He was sounding so unconcerned at Thunderbird Four's weakened state that it took the rest of the group a moment to react. "Uh… Yeah… Okay..." Scott agreed. "That sounds like a good idea. And you can start making a list of what we'll need to make sure she's seaworthy. We'll give you a call when we need you to give us a hand."

Gordon gave a nonchalant nod.

Somewhat nonplussed by the aquanaut's lack of emotion, the rest of the group moved away deeper into the complex. They found the four elevator cars lined up with all the other pod vehicles. Each and every machine was decorated by a thick coating of dust and numerous spider webs.

"There has to be a, er, breach in here somewhere," Brains mused. "This place should be airtight. There shouldn't be any way that dust or sp-spiders can get in."

Scott ran his finger along the Firefly's scoop. It came away black. "If there is a breach it could help to explain the scale."

Brains was still mulling over the unexpected discoveries. "The earthquakes may have, er, opened up a previously unknown rift in the cliff."

Alan turned to look back towards the main hangar. "Maybe they warped the cliff face door?"

Brains nodded his agreement. "Th-That is an excellent hypothesis."

"That's something we'll have to look at later," Scott noted. "In the meantime…" he gestured towards the master elevator car.

Brains stepped forward, placed a trigger at a precise point on each of the elevator cars' hatches and then retreated a safe distance. "Would you like to open the master car, L-Lady Penelope?"

"I should be honoured," her ladyship responded. She accepted the detonator and held it high. "This feels like quite an occasion... I hereby launch the Master Elevator Car. May God bless her and all who sail in her." To the sound of accompanying chuckles she pressed the ignition button. With a soft boom, the door to the machine detached itself from the body of the vehicle.

"Thank you." Brains accepted the detonator back, changed the ignition sequence, and then held it out to Tin-Tin. "W-Would you like to open car two…?"

Back in pod four, Gordon was staring forlornly at Thunderbird Four. Although he hadn't made use of Virgil's sunglasses, at this moment he felt as close to tears as he had done in years. It seemed as though his life was spinning out of control as he faced one catastrophe after another.

The Catastrophe that was _Doomsday_.

The Catastrophe that was his marriage to Marina.

The Catastrophe that was his pending divorce.

The Catastrophe that was Thunderbird Four.

And on top of all this there was his catastrophic…

"Virgil to Gordon."

Gordon shook himself and raised his watch to his face. "Go ahead, Virgil."

"How is she?"

"Not good," Gordon admitted. "She's covered in scale."

"Scale! Oh, heck! Is it bad?"

"Bad enough. I was just going to give her a coating of anti-corrosive and then help you guys stabilise Thunderbird Two."

"Will she need much work?"

"Maybe a new body. I was thinking of attaching a second skin to help her withstand the Mariana's pressures anyway, so we're going to have to get double the cahelium."

"I hope John's right when he says we've got enough money for all this."

"Yeah. How's the crane?"

"The crane's fine, apart from a bit of dust and a few cobwebs. Where is everyone?"

"Unleashing the elevator cars."

"That'll take a bit of time, so I'll come down and give you a hand to stabilise Four. We can't have her deteriorating any further than she already has."

"Thanks, Virgil. I really appreciate it."

And Gordon meant it.

-I-R-

-F-A-B-

It had taken hours to get Thunderbird Two to the stage where they felt they could safely leave her unattended. All the elevator cars had needed refuelling before four of the Tracy boys drove them into position fore and aft of Thunderbird Two. While Brains and Tin-Tin controlled the two cranes that held the mighty transporter aloft and Lady Penelope and Parker stood by watching and feeling redundant, Virgil abseiled down the outside of his aeroplane and cut each leg free. As soon as each tubular metallic structure had hit the ground with an eardrum-shattering clang, an elevator car drove into place, ready to catch Thunderbird Two should the crane lose its grip. Once all four legs had rolled clear, Virgil clambered back up into the crane to supervise the next stage of operations; the lowering of the aeroplane down onto all four elevator cars.

It was a weary group that, finally convinced that there was no chance that any more damage could happen to Thunderbird Two, dragged themselves back to the lounge...

"John..." John found himself hauled by the arm into Scott's room. "I want you to do something for me."

Curious, John looked at his eldest brother. "What?"

"Will you keep an eye on Gordon? This divorce is obviously affecting him more than he's letting on."

"I'd noticed. But why me?"

"He seems to accept you talking to him. You've seen how he reacts towards me."

"We've all seen. What on Earth happened between you two?!"

Scott made a dismissive gesture. "That's not important."

"Not important! The pair of you didn't talk for months! It might be important if I want to make sure I don't make the same mistake."

"You won't," Scott grunted. "I'd guarantee it..."

"Are you sure? He nearly bit my head off three times before we'd even left American soil!"

"But at least you are still talking… Will you look out for Gordon?"

"Of course I will..." John hesitated. "In return, I want you to do something."

"What?"

"Forget about Gustav."

Scott stared at him. "Huh?"

"We all know how much you don't like this persona Virgil's taken on; including Virgil. He's let you get away with your comments because it's you, but even he'll have his limits. And in the not too distant future when time's getting short and our tempers are getting shorter, you'll say one negative thing too many and he'll erupt quicker than this volcano we're on. And if you two blow yourselves apart you'll destroy this family. And if the family's destroyed, that'll destroy International Rescue. And if International Rescue's destroyed, then the world will have no chance of survival."

"Thanks for not putting me under any pressure."

John chuckled.

Scott sighed. "It's not that I don't like Gustav. It's that he's not our brother! You do realise that that's Virgil's real hair, not a wig?"

Shocked, John stared at him. "What?"

"See what I mean. That's not our Virgil."

"I know it's not what we expect of him. But do I have to remind you that we spent seven years of our lives pretending to be those hedonistic playboys lazing around our tropical paradise with no regard for the outside world? You can't get more fake than that." Scott made no reply and John patted him on the shoulder. "Look, maybe he's even greyer than you and he's trying to hide it."

"John..." Scott ran his hands through his hair. Then he shrugged. "I don't know. Maybe I'm turning into a cantankerous old man."

"Don't say that! You're not that much older than me!" John regarded his brother's downcast face. "You're not old, Scott."

"Aren't I? When I think about what we've got to achieve and how long we've got to do it, I feel about one hundred."

"And I feel one hundred and fifty. At least you're still fit and have got some muscle." John's playful punch to Scott's abdomen was blocked.

"Don't do that," he was told.

"Forget the way Virgil looks. I think he's shown today that even beneath that blue hair and everything, he's still Virgil and he's still going to give this challenge one hundred percent. I mean, look at us! I've gained weight and you're going grey..."

"Don't remind me," Scott growled.

"But that hasn't changed who we are underneath. So we're older! We're also wiser." Scott still didn't look happy. "What's really wrong?"

Scott hesitated. "I don't know if I'm the one to lead us."

John frowned. "Scott?"

"Everyone's changed. I mean: you're one of the most powerful businessmen in the world..."

"Only by default."

"And you're my boss." Scott paused. "Virgil's a stranger, Gordon bites my head off as soon as I open my mouth, and Alan's not a kid anymore. He's married! Now I've got to consider Tin-Tin as well as him."

"You've always considered Tin-Tin."

"But what if I'm the wrong person to take control this time? Who's to say that one of you won't do a better job?"

"Is this Scott Tracy talking? Is this the man who has got one of the best radio receivers in the country so that he can listen in on emergency broadcasts? Is this the man who still tries to formulate plans of action as if he were still in charge of International Rescue?"

Scott was silent. He'd regretted letting his family know about that particular hobby, as it had given his brothers nearly as much fuel for teasing him as his leaching hair colour.

"Scott," John continued, "it's precisely because things have changed so much that we need you in control. You leading us is going to be the one bit of stability we've got as the world literally crashes around our ears. And if you were to suggest this to anyone presently waiting for us in the lounge, or Dad, there's not one person who would say that you're not the man to lead International Rescue. Besides," John offered his brother an engaging grin, "there's not one of us who'd want to take your place."

Scott grunted. "Just make me a promise," he requested. "If I look like I'm going to stick my nose into Gordon's private affairs, pull me out."

John nodded. "Deal."

There was a sound in the hallway. "What are you two doing hiding in here?" Virgil asked.

Scott responded almost too quickly. "Just discussing what we've got to do to before we become fully operational."

"Does that include fitness tests? Brains wants to give each of us full medical examinations."

John spread his arms wide in a self-depreciating gesture. "Fail."

"He also wants to siphon off some of our blood in case we decide to spill it at any point."

"Fair enough," Scott conceded. "It's what we did before. Just as well I'm going to miss tomorrow's blood bank appointment."

"That's one of many reasons why I'd never get a tattoo or do drugs," Virgil admitted as they headed towards the lounge. "It might not be much, but I know that by donating blood regularly I'm helping at least one person."

John gave Scott a meaningful glance. "See?" he hissed.

When Scott Tracy took his seat at the head of the digital table, there was no sign of his earlier insecurities. "Well, now that we've got some idea of what we're up against, does anyone want to pull out? If anyone does I want to assure you that there will be no recriminations. We've all moved on in seven years, and we've all changed. We're older," he glanced at John, "and hopefully wiser. It's not reasonable to expect that we're all going to be willing to risk our lives one more time."

"Father never expected us to all be part of International Rescue first time around," Virgil recollected, drawing an ornate letter V on his sheet of digital paper. "But that didn't stop us from joining." He finished the upwards stroke of his initial with a big tick and pushed it towards the centre of the table. "I'm in."

"Even dealing with all the pressures of the Mariana Trench has got to be better than dealing with all the pressures from Marina." Gordon tried to put a fancy tail on his letter G and failed. So he drew a plain and simple tick on his sheet of paper. "I'm not as artistic as Gustav here," he confessed as he flicked the page out onto the table.

"I wish I wasn't starting with such a handicap," John admitted, "but that's not going to stop me from doing all I can." He pushed his J and tick to the centre of the table.

"Alan," Scott began, "we'd understand if you and Tin-Tin…"

Alan held up his hand to interrupt him. "You might understand, but we wouldn't. Tin-Tin and I have already discussed this, and we've agreed that no matter what sacrifices it may entail, we've got to do what we can." He drew a tick on a digital page.

Tin-Tin drew another tick beside her husband's. "And that's a mutual decision."

"Thanks." Scott smiled at the bespectacled man at the other end of the table. "I hope you're going to say that you're with us Brains, because we're going to be lost without you."

Brains blinked at him. "I n-never considered _not_ helping." He ticked the sheet of paper in front of him.

"I don't suppose that there is a lot that I can do," Lady Penelope admitted as she inscribed LPC-W on a piece of paper. "But I would like you all to know that if you do require my talents, I am available." She ticked the page.

"An' that goes for me an' all," Parker agreed, ticking the page that had been passed to him by his employer.

"We won't advertise our intentions just yet," Scott advised. "In case we get people's hopes up unnecessarily; but when we do go public, I would hope that any criminals who might be after our secrets will be more interested in saving their own necks than trying to get to us. But I know we can count on you to keep your ears and eyes open to support us."

"Of course, Scott." Lady Penelope inclined her head. "And you? Are you prepared to, to quote yourself, _risk your life_?"

Scott drew an S on his sheet of paper. "Before I do…" and he received surprised stares from almost everyone at the table, "I need to know... Do you still want me to coordinate everything?" He didn't look at John. "I've sort of taken control up till now, but if anyone thinks that someone else could do a better job, then I don't mind stepping aside."

"We've let you take control because we expect you to be in control," Virgil told him. "Because we _know_ you _can_ take control."

"Yeah," Alan agreed. "You've always bossed us around in the past, so why change the habit of a lifetime?"

"Are you all sure?" Scott clarified. "Things are going to get tougher and more stressful before we'll be ready to act. And we're going to need a clear chain of command. No second thoughts down the line. No second guessing me…"

"Oh, for Pete's sake!" Gordon snapped. "Are you going to tick that piece of paper or aren't you?!"

Scott ticked the piece of paper.

Virgil doodled on a white page. "What would you have done if we'd said we wanted Tin-Tin to take command?" he asked, and Tin-Tin uttered a little exclamation of surprise. He grinned at her. "She's shown she's capable of keeping her head and marshalling us all when we're losing ours."

"I would have endorsed your decision fully." Scott gave his sister-in-law an appreciative smile and got himself a clean sheet of paper. "Okay… Now that we know we're all on board, we'd better start giving out assignments. We're going to be stretched thin. Brains... Do you want to put your energies into designing and building the detonators?"

Brains inclined his head. "I-I would appreciate that, Scott."

"Right." Scott made a note. "Will you need Tin-Tin's assistance?"

"Yes."

Scott wrote Tin-Tin's name beside Brains and the heading 'detonator'. Then he wrote 'Thunderbird Four'. He hesitated and then looked at Gordon. "Can we leave you in sole charge of repairs to Thunderbird Four, Gordon? If we could spare someone else we would. Don't forget that if you need help you can ask."

Gordon nodded. "Yeah, that's okay."

Scott stared at him for a moment as if shocked by the lack of complaint; then he turned to his brother in the adjacent seat. "I know she's going to be a big job, Virgil, but can I leave you with taking care of Thunderbird Two?"

Virgil was already jotting down notes and ideas. "Not a problem. So long as I can call on Gordon when I need an extra pair of hands, and he calls on me when he needs help."

Gordon patted him on the back. "Guaranteed."

"Thanks." Scott put their names in the required columns. "That'll leave us three," he indicated himself, John and Alan, "to prepare Thunderbird Three for flight. Once she's operational we can go and check out Thunderbird Five."

"She's going to be more than a five minute job," John reminded him. "All her controls are probably iced up. We're going to have to bring her online again slowly; giving all her electronics time to warm and dry out. Only then will we be able to run her diagnostic programmes. We're likely to be up there for several days."

"Which means that we're going to have to take enough food to sustain us for several days," Alan commented. "And bedding." He shivered. "Our mattresses are going to be frozen solid! That's assuming that Thunderbird Five's still liveable. The pseudo-gravity generator's probably not working."

Scott made a note. "If worst comes to the worst we'll camp in Thunderbird Three."

John looked across the table to the engineer. "Are we going to need you to detonate the siezite on Thunderbird Five, Brains?"

"N-No." Brains looked apologetic. "I, er, thought that the vacuum of space might cause the siezite to behave in unexpected ways, and I was also concerned about the potential for, er, damage in the explosion."

"So, we're going to have to open her manually." Scott laid down his pen and looked at the group. "I know we'd planned to, but we won't fly out tonight. We're all tired, and some time to think about what plans need to be made and what supplies need to be brought back with us tomorrow won't hurt. We'll fly back to the States first thing in the morning. Is everyone okay with that?"

He listened to the murmurings of assent and got to his feet. "Good. Let's go see about making some dinner."

Virgil picked up a tablet PC. "I'll be down in the equipment room checking out the supplies."

Gordon picked up another computer. "I'll help you, Virg."

"Thanks."

"Thank you, Parker," Lady Penelope acknowledged as he held her chair out for her. "Perhaps you would be so good as to take my bags to my room?"

"Yes, m'Lady." With her bags already stored in her bedroom, Parker realised that her ladyship wanted him to make himself scarce. With a bow and a "'Scuse me, Mister Alan," he made a dignified exit.

Lady Penelope turned to the youngest Tracy, who'd hung back as if he'd wanted a word with her. "I believe it will be a stressful few months for you all. I do so wish that we could do more to help."

Alan glanced about to check that he could speak without being overheard. "There is something that I'd like you to do, Penny," he whispered. "But I can't explain now. I'll give you a call when I get the chance. Is that okay?"

"Of course, dear boy." Lady Penelope smiled at him. "I shall await your call."

_To be continued…_


	4. Chapter 4 - Double Trouble

**Chapter Four: Double Trouble**

John Tracy stood in his old bedroom on Tracy Island. After dinner the group had had a discussion about what was going to be needed to get them through the next three months and what everyone's plans were for tomorrow. Then they'd turned in, knowing that they had to make an early start the following morning.

John had reached for the remote that would draw his blinds when he stopped himself. Stepping up to the window he drew back the net curtains and stared outside.

He caught his breath.

Light pollution and work had conspired against him taking the time to indulge his passion, and the intervening years had almost caused him to forget the wonder of the night skies. Yet here he was staring out to where the sky seemed black and remote and filled with tiny, beckoning, pinpoints of light.

Above him he could see hundreds of stars. Hundreds and hundreds of his old friends. He could almost hear them calling to him like a Siren; compelling him to step outside and join them.

On impulse he turned, grabbed a jacket, and marched out of his room.

It had been years since he'd visited Tracy Island and it seemed even longer since he'd used his observatory. Almost breathless with anticipation, he pushed a button marked _Obs'y_ and listened as the monorail rumbled along the track in his direction. The vehicle stopped at his station and he stepped inside knowing that he should be heading off to bed to sleep, not on a jaunt across the island through an active volcano. With a slight sense of trepidation, and a delicious shiver of expectation, he set the monorail in motion. As he settled in for the short ride he wondered why he'd taken so long to come home…

Home?

Tracy Island was Alan and Tin-Tin's home, not his; so why, John wondered, had he called this home instead of his apartment in the States? It wasn't as though he'd visited this part of the world all that often during the last seven years. The villa and its surroundings were too far away for his father to travel to in comfort, so all family gatherings had been held at Jeff's house.

Yet this was home?

John wondered if his brothers felt the same way.

Scott and Virgil, while they both lived in New York City, had their apartments so far apart geographically and stylistically then they may as well have been in different countries. John had often stayed at his elder siblings' apartments when in town on business and he'd decided that each brother's place spoke volumes about its owner's personalities.

Scott's penthouse apartment, when you first walked into it, gave the immediate, incorrect, impression of clutter. Then, when you stopped and took the time to look around, you discovered that what you were looking at was a carefully controlled utilisation of each space and surface. Scott had shunned open plan living; his opinion being that rooms like the kitchen were designed for one thing and one thing only and should be kept separate from everything else. While this made each room relatively small, they all had picture windows, giving Scott ample opportunity to see the skies when he wasn't flying in them.

In contrast Virgil enjoyed an open-plan studio apartment. It too was several floors up and had large windows, but this was to ensure that the artist had plenty of natural light to work by. The kitchen, living area, bedroom were all contained in this simple, clutter-free, single room. But John knew there was another room hidden off to one side, as if, like its owner, it was keeping its real personality concealed from the world. This room was Virgil's combined den and workshop. He may have stated that he wanted to get away from all things technical when he left International Rescue, but that hadn't stopped him from indulging those interests. A workbench would invariably be hidden under several projects that he had on the go at once. Sketch books lay everywhere. None of these contained drawings relating to Gustav's work, but were filled with plans; inventions, and designs for stillborn ideas for new machines for International Rescue. Bizarrely, this room also housed Gustav's wigs and John had always got a fright when he would turn and find a torsoless head gazing blindly at him.

Even more different again, Gordon's houseboat had been decorated in the style that Alan had dubbed _nauseatingly nautical_. John had quite liked it as it had not only suited a houseboat, it had also suited Gordon. Gordon had sought John's advice when naming it and together they'd decided on _Whaititiri-manu whā_, a New Zealand Māori phrase meaning Thunderbird Four. Gordon had wanted to keep that link with his old life, but in such a way that it wouldn't arouse suspicion. By using a relatively obscure language of a Pacific peoples he was limiting the number of individuals who would understand its meaning, and for those who did, he was able to say that he'd always admired International Rescue.

But then Marina had added her influence. John had only visited the houseboat once after Gordon's marriage and had no desire to return. The décor had gone from nauseatingly nautical to, in John's opinion, simply nauseating. Marina had also wanted to change the houseboat's name to something she could pronounce, but Gordon had managed to put his foot down, telling her that it was bad luck to change the name of a boat. Fortunately she'd believed him.

Alan, when he wasn't living on Tracy Island, lived much of the year in a trailer. Its décor was what Gordon had dubbed (in retaliation to Alan's dismissive description of the houseboat) _Malaysian Motor-head Mania_; a mixture of pictures, fixtures, and fittings to do with Alan's racing and Tin-Tin's ancestral homeland. John didn't know if Alan ever thought about International Rescue, but tellingly he had dubbed his racecar TB3.

And what, John mused as the monorail moved smoothly through the mountain, did his apartment say about him? It was comfortable enough and there were some homely touches. His favourite piece of furniture was an easy chair that Jeff had given him to relax in after a hard day at the office. Scott had given him several rare astronomy books that graced the shelves next to the brief guide to the universe written entirely in Klingon and the complete works of Shakespeare in Na'vi. Gordon had given him those as a gag gift, but John appreciated the way they melded his two interests of astronomy and obscure languages. Virgil had painted a star scene that graced one wall. It was a Virgil Tracy original, which meant its sale value was lower than a Gustav, but to John it was priceless. Alan had given him a chess set where each piece was a representation of an astronomical body, but John had never found time to play it.

All those personal touches that graced John's apartment had been given to him by his family, but John had added nothing to make his apartment his home. Following his earlier reflections on how his brothers' homes were reflections of their personalities, John wondered if this meant that he had no personality except when he interacted with those he cared about?

The realisation that this might be true gave him a sharper jolt than the monorail as it gently eased to a stop.

Sickened with the way he'd become a complete non-entity, John exited the monorail and at once felt his heart lift.

Ahead of him, silhouetted against the starry sky, was his prized observatory. He stepped inside and started the chain of events that brought life to his outlook on the universe. As he waited for everything to warm up after seven years inactivity, he went back outside and, his heart pounding with anticipation, walked over towards the edge of a cliff to where the black Pacific Ocean spread out as far as the eye could see. Here was a long, broad, backless seat, and John lay down on its lichen covered boards; spreading his arms wide to bask in the rays of hundreds of tiny suns as he gazed towards the heavens.

Crux, Orion, Pleiades, Scorpius. These were his friends. This was his identity. This was where he should be, looking upwards towards infinity, rather than downwards at a balance sheet. He let his fears and concerns float away out over the Pacific Ocean as he relaxed underneath the inky-black, sequin-studded sky; letting out a sigh of contentment and imagining his stale and repressed personality being expelled with it. He felt his tensions disappear. It didn't matter that the world was going to end in four months; the stars would still be there.

Getting to his feet he ambled back into the observatory. The computer had successfully booted up and a gentle hum told him that the motor that controlled the angle and direction of the telescope was operational. All that remained was for him to tell it what to look at. He entered a code into the computer and experienced a shiver down his spine as the roof opened up above him.

Since that was where the telescope was pointing, he started by examining the moon waxing near the horizon. Greatly magnified he could see the whole disc; the slither of a crescent of light in sharp relief to the remainder in shadow. Individual features leapt out at him. He saw the Sea of Tranquillity where man had first laid foot on the moon, and he picked out the reflected sunlight from the moon base that his father had helped establish all those years ago.

Now he had a whole sky to examine, so where should he start? On a whim he entered a set of coordinates in the computer, and felt a tingle of anticipation as the roof rotated and the telescope redirected itself until it was nearly on the vertical. Pressing his eye to the eyepiece he saw black sky.

He was not discouraged. Assuming that it had not been destroyed somehow, he was looking directly at Thunderbird Five. The fact that he was unable to see anything meant that her non-reflective coating still hid her position from prying eyes.

John felt a delighted chuckle well up inside of him. With any luck he'd be up there soon…

Back to his second home.

But first he wanted to see something in that theatre of the sky. Checking the final entry in the computer he told the telescope to focus on the same sector that he'd observed the last time he'd visited the observatory. The roof swung around and the telescope lowered itself slightly until it was fixed in place.

Supremely content; despite the fact that world was due to end in four months; this island was due to be ripped apart in three; and that he and his brothers were about to embark on an adventure that had no guarantee of success; John looked at the picture on the computer screen. Jupiter had moved into this sector, but the orientation of the stars hadn't changed, and neither had…

John looked closer. Something wasn't quite right. He flicked back to the historic photograph. Worried, he returned to the one that was seconds old. He put them side-by-side and examined them in detail…

He sat down at his desk and, surprised that his passwords were still active, searched through international astronomical databases.

Everything was confirming what he had suspected, but John needed more. He dialled a number on the videophone.

"Dexter Mullins…" The man at the other end of the video link blinked in surprise. "John? John Tracy? Is that you?"

"Yes, Dexter, it's me."

"How long has it been?"

"About seven years."

"Seven years!" Dexter parroted. "Seems longer." He grinned. "I see you're getting fat on the pig's back. How are you?"

"I'm fine. And you?"

"Still here, so I guess that counts for something. What's brought you back to the world of night?"

"Uh…" John hadn't prepared any excuses so he dredged up the one that Scott had suggested for Alan. "My brothers and I have decided that we want to spend the planet's last few months together, so we're back on Tracy Island. Today's our first night here and I thought I'd fire up my telescope."

"And you've forgotten how to use it?"

John chuckled. "No. That's not why I've called."

"Then what can I do for you, John?"

"I've been checking the databases and I noticed asteroid 2070SB…"

"Ah…" Dexter lost some of his joviality. "You mean 'Arnie'."

"Arnie?"

"After the actor."

"Huh?" John managed to refrain from scratching his head. "Ah, yes, I guess so," he prevaricated, not quite sure which actor the vintage movie buff was talking about. He gave a quick rundown of his summation of what he'd learned so far. "Am I reading the data right?"

"Have you ever read the data wrong, my friend?" Dexter responded. "There wasn't a better astronomer inside the Agency or out of it. How many discoveries have you made? I can't understand how you could leave your own private observatory behind. If I had your family's money I would have become a hermit on that island of yours, forgotten about the outside world, and whiled away my nights gazing at the stars."

"Well, you know how it is…" John treated his associate to a wry grin. "Someone had to mind the family store."

"And you drew the short straw?" Dexter laughed.

John reminded himself that his colleague's seemingly careless attitude concealed a hardworking, dedicated astronomer. "Has anyone been alerted about 2070SB?"

"We've told the World President, but she came to the conclusion that everyone's got enough to worry about with Doomsday. She's decided not to worry the world unnecessarily."

John frowned. "Is anyone doing anything?"

Dexter shook his head. "What can be done? We're monitoring it of course, but the way things stand, in another four months it'll cease to be a problem anyway. My advice to you is to make the most of that observatory of yours in the time you've got left, and keep your telescope out of that patch of sky."

John managed a smile. "Thanks for the advice."

"Consider it a gift. And if you manage find something else new and exciting; you might like to reciprocate by remembering your old friend here and not keeping the glory all to yourself. I wouldn't mind having my name going down in the annals of history, even if history's going to be cut short."

John chuckled. "No promises, but I'll keep you in mind. Give my best to the whole gang."

"Will do. Don't wait another seven years before you report in."

"Roger that. Good bye, Dexter."

The videophone screen went blank and John stared at it in thought. This new and disquieting bit of information was going to put a whole new slant on their plans.

With a sudden burst of life he ran back to the monorail and sent it top speed back to the house. Not caring if he woke anyone, he ran through the hallways and barrelled into Scott's room, confident that his brother would still be awake.

He was wrong. "Wha'…?" Scott, rudely awakened, blinked against the sudden bright light. "John? Id's…" he stared bleary-eyed at his clock, "afder midnigh'." He nuzzled back into his pillow. "Go bed…"

"No!" Trying to regain his breath, John rocked his brother by the shoulder. "We need," he gasped, "to have," _gasp_, "a meeting!"

"'ave it in the mornin'…" Scott told his pillow.

"We need to have it now! It could change everything!" John pulled Scott's bedclothes off his reluctant brother and ran out of the room.

With a sigh of exasperation, and accepting that he was now fully awake, Scott levered himself upwards until he was sitting on the side of his bed. As he shoved his feet into his slippers he was surprised to hear the alarm that had been International Rescue's call to action. Not wanting to give the appearance that he'd been caught napping; he grabbed his robe and jogged out to the lounge.

John was bending over the digital table, muttering something to himself as footsteps running down the hall heralded the arrival of other members of the party.

"What's wrong?"

"What's going on?"

"Which pod will we need?" Virgil pulled himself up short as he remembered that they hadn't needed a pod for seven years. He ran his hand through his hair and then noticed that almost everyone was staring at him. "What?!"

"Erm… Is that your real hair?" Alan asked.

"Yes, it is."

"Oh…" Alan glanced at Tin-Tin. "We thought you were wearing a wig," he explained.

"Well, I'm not!" Feeling peeved by the unwelcome attention, Virgil tried without success to tuck his shoulder-length, sky-blue hair behind his ears. "Is that all you woke me for? To see if I'm wearing a wig?"

Scott forgot his earlier promise to John. "We've got more important things to worry about than your lack of fashion sense, Virgil."

"Fine," Virgil grumbled. "In that case I'll go back to bed." He scowled at Gordon, convinced that their early morning wake-up call was the fault of the clown of the team. "That's if the joke's finished."

"Don't blame me!" Gordon snapped. "You weren't the only one who was woken up! I'd almost managed to drop off and then some idiot decides that it would be a laugh to set off the alarm!" He folded his arms and glared at Alan.

"It wasn't me," Alan protested. "Right, Tin-Tin?"

"Yes," she agreed. "It wasn't Alan. Remember we followed you into the lounge, Gordon." She rested her head on her husband's shoulder and closed her eyes. "Wake me when we're allowed back to bed, Honey."

Gordon wasn't about to let the issue rest. "Then whose fault is it?!"

Lady Penelope patted a yawn. "I am sure that it is daylight back in England, and I know that I haven't done nearly as much work as the rest of you, but my body clock is telling me that I should be asleep."

Parker didn't attempt to stifle his yawn. "Can't we 'ave a meetin' in the mornin'?" he grumbled.

"What's going on, Scott!" Gordon demanded, directing his anger at his eldest brother. "What's the big idea?"

Scott shrugged and indicated John who was still cursing the digital table under his breath. "Do you want to let us all in on your secret, John? Or can we go back to bed until you've got the table working?"

"No... Got it! Come and look at my photos!" Two pictures were displayed on the table side-by-side and everyone crowded around to see what was so important.

"Well, this is exciting," Alan deadpanned when he saw the uninformative greyscale images. "Let me guess. It's one of those psychiatric tests where you look at the ink blots and say what you see?" He glared at John. "And what I'm seeing is someone whose lifespan is going to be shorter than four months if he doesn't hurry up and tell us what's so important it couldn't wait until the morning!"

"This!" John indicated the table as if it made everything clear. "This is what's important!"

"Is your camera broken?"

"What?!" John spluttered

"John…" Trying to hold back a looming headache, Scott pinched the bridge of his nose. "It's late. We've travelled a long way. We've spent hours working on our equipment. We've got a lot to do over the next few months, and we're tired… What is 'this'?"

"This," John indicated one side of the table, "is a photo I took seven years ago of these coordinates." He indicated the numbers on screen. "While this is of the same sector taken tonight. Look at the difference!"

"Spot the difference?" Gordon snarled, "If you've got us up for a stupid children's game, John, then I'm going back to bed." He took a step away from the table.

"Wait!" John grabbed him by the arm. "This is serious!"

"Serious! We don't even know what we're looking at!"

"You're looking at asteroid 2070SB!"

Alan pointed to a black dot on one greyscale picture. "That blob's bigger than the other."

"Exactly! That's 2070SB!"

"Ah…" Everyone stared at the two photos; trying to get their tired minds to understand what it was that was so worrying.

Virgil threw his hands up in surrender. "You say that's an asteroid, John, but I still have no idea what I'm looking at."

John stared at him incredulously. "Don't you understand?"

"No," Gordon informed him, "We're not all astronomers!"

"Oh..." Realising that the enormity of the situation was lost on his family and friends, John took a moment to consider how he was going to explain his discovery in the most basic way possible. "Let me start from the beginning."

Tin-Tin yawned. "Thank you."

"This," John indicated the seven-year-old image, "is asteroid – 2070SB. It's the last thing I photographed before we left the island in 2072. This…" his finger moved across the table until it rested on another dot, "is the same asteroid as seen in the sky tonight. It's moved."

"So?" Gordon sneered. "Asteroids are known to move around, aren't they?"

"Yes, they are, and this one's changed its orbit. I spoke to Dexter Mullins; he's a world expert on intra-solar system asteroids and he's confirmed what I feared. 2070SB is on course for a collision with the Earth!"

"What!?" Scott exclaimed. "When?"

"This time next year, when the Earth's orbit places it back in this position."

"So are you saying," Virgil clarified, "that even if we manage to stop Doomsday from doing its worst, the planet's doomed anyway?"

"No, that's not the way these things work. I'm saying that there's a strong probability that 2070SB is going to collide with the Earth. It might narrowly miss us. It might take out the moon…"

Gordon sucked in his breath. "That could be nearly as devastating. It could change the ecosystem of the planet. With no moon we'd have no tides. It would even stop the way the Earth bulges 30 centimetres a day..."

"H-How big is the asteroid?" Brains interrupted.

John remembering that most of those present weren't well versed in astronomical terminology, kept it simple. "Just under two kilometres at its widest point. If it scored a direct hit, Earth would be pulverised." John hesitated. "It could potentially wipe out life as we know it."

"What h-if h-it's not a direct 'it?" Parker asked. "What h-if it only slightly glanced us, like?"

"That would depend on the angle of entry; speed on entry; place of impact; various other factors... But it is possible that a glancing blow could knock us out of orbit."

"What does this Dexter guy say about the likelihood of the Earth being hit?" Scott asked.

"He said that Arnie…"

"Arnie?!"

"He's nicknamed 2070SB Arnie. He's a fan of old action movies," John explained. "Anyway, according Dexter's reports he's 85 percent certain that Arnie will have some impact on our planet."

Stunned by this information everyone stared at him.

"85 percent…" Scott breathed. "Are you telling us that even if we manage to minimise the damage from Doomsday and the world survives, there's an 85 percent chance that we'll all be killed this time next year anyway?"

John gave a grim nod. "Especially if the Earth's crust is weakened because we don't manage to totally negate Doomsday..."

Everyone sank onto the nearest seat in numb shock. The knowledge of what they were going to have to do to save the world was starting to weigh them down, and this additional information threatened to crush them completely.

"Is there anything we can do?" Alan asked. "John…? Brains…?"

A phone rang a little tune.

"Oh, lor, that's h-all we need," Parker moaned under his breath. "H-It's Lord Cow-barn Saint Anne Boleyn."

Lady Penelope withdrew her mobile phone from the pocket of her robe. "I am so dreadfully sorry," she apologised, "but I keep this with me at all times in case my present employers ever need my assistance." She managed a little smile. "They're not imaginative enough to think of supplying me with a powder compact... However..." the phone trilled again, "this call is from Ralph and he has a totally unprofessional interest in my whereabouts."

"Penny..." Scott groaned. "Can you shut that thing up? With all due respect, we've got more important things to worry about than your private life."

Lady Penelope's eyes lit up as the phone persisted in playing its little ditty. "Then we will dissuade him from pursuing me once and for all. Pretend we're having a party."

He stared at her. "A party?"

"Yes! Virgil, could you play the piano?"

"Yeah, sure..." He stood and started walking over to the white baby grand. "But I doubt it's in tune..."

"That won't matter. Ralph is tone-deaf anyway. Please everyone, make a lot of noise. Sound like you're enjoying yourselves!"

"Enjoy ourselves?" Gordon grumbled. "One way or another, the world's going to end; we can't do anything to stop it; and you're asking us to enjoy ourselves?"

"Come on, Gordon," Tin-Tin cajoled. "You only have to pretend."

"'Ere..." Parker had extracted some glasses from the drinks cabinet. "Clink these."

Virgil started playing an upbeat tune and cringed as the piano twanged. "Ouch."

"Rhubarb, rhubarb," Parker intoned. "Rhubarb, rhubarb."

John stared at him. "What on Earth...?"

"H-If we all say it, it'll sound like h-a 'ole lot of people talkin'," Parker explained. "Come on, Mister John. Rhubarb, rhubarb."

"This has got to be one of the stupidest things I've ever done," John admitted. "If I wasn't doing it for you, Penny..." He sighed. "Rhubarb, rhubarb."

Feeling like idiots, everyone joined in a desultory chorus.

"For Pete's sake!" Parker exclaimed. "Put more life inta h-it!"

"Here," Alan was fiddling with the digital table's computer. He managed to find an audio file of a party in full swing and turned the volume up to shouting level.

"Thank you, dear boy." Lady Penelope finally answered the phone. "Ralph, Darling! How are you...? I am _so_ sorry that I took so long to answer but Gordon kidnapped my phone. He's such a tease." Gordon rolled his eyes and muttered under his breath. "I'm sorry, Ralph, it's awfully difficult to hear what you are saying, let me just move over here... What...? We're having such a _wonderful_ party, you know. Everyone's simply _full_ of joie de vivre... I beg your pardon...? Where am I? Oh! At the home of some simply _wonderful_ people. You'd be amazed to see who is here. The crème de la crème of American society, and they are all _so_ handsome and entertaining," she gushed. "Who...? Ah..." She glanced at the Tracys. "There's an absolutely _fearless_ test pilot; the CEO of one of the world's _foremost_ companies; an _innovative_ avant-garde artist; a _stunning_ Olympic gold medallist; a simply _gorgeous_ world champion race driver; a _brilliant_ rocket scientist; an engineer with both looks _and_ brains; and a reformed safe-cracker who tells the most _marvellously_ daring stories. I am having the most _wonderful_ night and I'm hopeful it will get even better... If you know what I mean..."

Virgil glanced at Scott, noticing that his elder brother was looking uncomfortable at where Lady Penelope's tale was heading.

Not that she was getting the chance to say much more as she listened to Cockburn-Saint-John's whining voice. She mouthed a silent "help!"

Alan decided that it was time for him to get back into the rescue business. "Penny...!" He called. "Come and get another drink."

She lightly covered the mouthpiece. "Thank you, Alan, darling. I shall be right with you. Save the next dance for me, would you...?"

"How about one, just the two of us, on the beach out under the stars?" he responded in a suggestive voice, and gave an apologetic shrug when everyone stared at him. He gave a scowling Tin-Tin a light kiss on the temple. "Sorry," he whispered.

"Now, Ralph, I must go... Yes, I agree that one hopes to find that someone special to spend one's final days with, and between you and me," Lady Penelope lowered her voice as if she were about to let him in on her confidence, "I think there's every chance..." She held the phone away from her ear as Cockburn-Saint-John spluttered his indignation. "Ralph... Ralph...!" She managed to interrupt his ranting. "I'm sorry you feel that way, Ralph, but..." She listened as he spluttered some more. "I know it won't do my reputation any good, but, quite frankly, who cares? The world is going to end, Ralph. One may as well enjoy..." there was an audible click from the earpiece of the phone, "it... Oh. How rude. He hung up." She pocketed the phone. "Now where were we?"

Alan pushed a button on the digital table and the cheerful sounds of the party were replaced with a depressing silence.

"Penny," Scott said with feeling, "I'm sure I speak for every male here, that none of us want to be known as 'the other man' in your love triangle."

"Especially not my husband!" Tin-Tin exclaimed.

Lady Penelope gave a graceful, but dismissive, wave of her hand. "There is no 'love triangle'. As far as Ralph Cockburn-Saint-John and I are concerned, there isn't even a love pairing. He is a friend. A very possessive friend."

Scott gave her a wary look.

"Can we get back to grown-ups' business?" Gordon asked. "What are we going to do about this asteroid?"

Scott turned to the 'brilliant rocket scientist' who was still looking a bit stunned at being grouped together with the 'handsome and entertaining' Tracys. "I hate to add a bigger burden to what we're already asking of you, Brains," he began, "but can you think of anything we can do to stop this asteroid or at least divert it from its present trajectory?"

Brains shook himself awake. "P-Perhaps you would allow John, Alan and me to, er, discuss this amongst ourselves before I answer your question?"

"Sure, Brains. Take as long as you need."

"So long as it's not longer than a year," Gordon muttered.

-I-R-

-F-A-B-

Two and a half hours later found them most of them still moping in the lounge. Scott, desperate to have a plan of action, but without the necessary knowledge to be involved in the planning process, was pacing up and down beside the patio doors. Gordon had got sick of waiting and was killing time under lights in the pool. Virgil, trying not to make any noise to disrupt the planners, was attempting to tune his piano without actually playing it. Lady Penelope and Tin-Tin were quietly gossiping. Parker had grown tired of supplying everyone with endless rounds of coffee and was slumped into one of the more comfortable chairs; his head back and snoring. And around the digital table, three heads were bent low, poring over photographs, diagrams, schematic drawings, and star charts.

At last Brains straightened and rubbed his back. He blinked at the other occupants of the room as if he was surprised to see them there. "We have, er, a solution."

Scott pulled open one of the doors, closed against the tropical winter night. "Gordon!" he shouted. "We're ready!"

"Give me a minute to get out of my wetsuit…"

By the time Gordon had changed back into his pyjamas and had charged up the stairs, the two astronauts and the engineer were ready to present their findings.

"W-We believe that there is something that International Rescue can do to, er, divert this catastrophe," Brains explained.

"What are we going to do?" Gordon asked. "Blast Arnie to smithereens?"

John shook his head. "If we did that, there would be every possibility that a body of this size would simply shatter into hundreds of smaller pieces; any one of which, should it find itself within our gravitational pull, could cause havoc to the Earth."

"So, what's the solution?" Scott asked.

"2070SB must be m-moved from its present course," Brains hold him.

"How?"

"I'm going to take Thunderbird Three and attach a rocket booster to the side of the asteroid," Alan explained. "Then I'll fire the booster remotely and, hopefully, we'll alter Arnie's present course so that it'll be caught up in Jupiter's gravitational field."

"Space bodies regularly crash into Jupiter, so if we miscalculate, it's unlikely to affect the planet long term," John added.

"Why Jupiter?" Scott asked. "Why not nudge it back into orbit with all the others in the asteroid belt?"

Alan felt a quiet pride that he was the one who had to explain the details of a mission to his eldest brother; even if the plan he was explaining was going to take a long time to execute and had no guarantees of success. "While Thunderbird Three won't have to use a lot of fuel on the journey to and from the rendezvous, just an occasional course correction, she will need a long burn to push her beyond Earth's gravitational field and to get her up to maximum cruising speed. She will need another extended burn to bring her back to cruising speed for the return journey. That's all before we consider the fuel usage needed for docking with Thunderbird Five and course corrections during re-entry."

Scott nodded his understanding.

"Lining up the booster so that it can manoeuvre Arnie to the optimum angle and velocity that will keep it in orbit around the sun would use more fuel than we think we can spare. This could leave Thunderbird Three's fuel reserves too low to make any unexpected course corrections."

"Alan's right," John agreed. "It will be much more efficient to send 2070SB in the general direction of Jupiter and let the planet's gravitational field dictate the asteroid's final destination."

"Plus," Alan added, "I don't want to waste any more fuel than I have to. Thunderbird Three's going to have to sustain me for at least four months."

His family reacted with varying degrees of horror. "Four months!"

Alan shrugged. "That's a rough estimate."

"That's a long time alone!" With an effort, Scott squashed his concerns. "When are you planning to lift off?" He circled the digital table until he could see the calendar displayed there. "September 25? That's only two months away."

"Two months!?" Virgil ran his hand through his hair, which had fallen over his face. "Can we make a rocket big enough to shift a lump of rock that size in two months?"

"I think so," Brains admitted. "The rocket won't need to be especially b-big or powerful, but it will need enough fuel to allow Alan to make any necessary course corrections remotely. B-B-But it will be a complicated build."

"And," John added, "if we launch much after the 25th, the relative orbital positions between Earth, Jupiter and 2070SB will make the task virtually impossible. We're aiming to have the booster operating on November 27."

"That means that you'll be doing the Dead Sea Transform deployment alone, Virgil," Scott analysed. "Any issues with that?"

"That will mean a few tweaks to the life-support system on board The Mole to ensure that it can run with only one operator," Virgil admitted. "But that shouldn't be a problem."

Tin-Tin took Alan's hand. "Can I come with you?"

"Are you sure you want to come? It'll be dangerous."

"It will be no more dangerous than fighting Doomsday, or even simply waiting here to see if your brothers are successful. I've done space rescues before and I may be able to help."

"We're going to be a long way away from home for a long time."

"So long as I'm with you I don't mind..." Tin-Tin looked into her husband's eyes. "Don't you want me to be with you?"

"Of course I do!" Alan kissed her on the forehead. "Thanks, Honey. Having you with me will make the job much easier."

Not happy, but accepting that there was little that they could do about the situation, Scott continued to work through the changes to their plans. "Thunderbird Three's our only means of transportation between here and Thunderbird Five. So you'll have to drop John off first, Alan, before you carry on to rendezvous with Arnie." He looked at his eldest brother. "Which will leave you up in Thunderbird Five for a lot longer than we'd originally planned, John. Four months is longer than any tour of duty you've ever had. Will you be able to handle it?"

"What's the difference between me being stuck in an office all day and me being stuck in a satellite all day?" John asked. "So long as we don't lose communications between here and Five, and I'm able to carry enough supplies to keep me going for four months, I'll be fine." He smiled. "I'll being able to indulge myself in more hours of astronomical observations than I've managed in the last seven years. I can't think of anything better… " He lost his smile. "Though talking of communications reminds me. Jupiter's surrounded by an intense radiation field called the magnetosphere; it's similar to Earth's van Allen belt. The magnetosphere is going to interfere with all communications between Thunderbird Three and Earth for at least two months of the mission; including the period when they're dealing with 2070SB."

Scott frowned. "Will we have any way of contacting Three?"

"No. And even if there was; that far out from Earth there'll be a noticeable time lag between the sending and receiving of messages. Even when looking through an optical telescope there could be up to a half hour delay between when the event happens and when it'll be visible on Earth… That's assuming that we can see the impact and it's not on the far side of Jupiter or that some other body gets in the way."

Scott let out a tension-filled breath and looked at the young couple next to him. "You're going to be isolated from all other human contact for at least two months. You're going to be trapped together for four months. Do you think you'll be able to cope?"

Alan gave a confident nod. "We'll cope."

Scott ran his hand through his hair. "I think we've done enough talking tonight. "He looked at his watch. "And I'm sure we'd all like to be fully awake when we explain our plans to Father tomorrow."

Gordon looked at his watch. "You mean today."

Scott ignored the interruption "So we should all go to bed now."

He led the way out of the room.

_To be continued..._


	5. Chapter 5 - Goodbye World

**Chapter Five: Goodbye World**

"Gordon…" with an unfamiliar and unwelcome feeling of trepidation, Scott knocked on the door to his brother's room. "Can I have a quick word?"

Gordon, his expression weary, but open and welcoming, looked up from where he was tying his shoelaces. "Yes, Scott?"

Scott relaxed slightly at his brother's apparent good humour. "I don't want to tread on your toes… But I was thinking about when you tell Father about your divorce. When would be best for you? Before we tell him about our plans, or afterwards?"

"Oh, er…" Gordon hesitated as he thought. "I think I want to tell him first. Get it out of the way."

"Okay," Scott nodded. "And would you rather the pair of you were alone, or do you want some or all of us with you to support you?" He wished he wasn't sounding so unsure of himself. "I mean, if you'd rather I wasn't there, but everyone else was; or you only want one of us; or you'd rather have a couple of us; or you don't want…"

Gordon held up his hand. "Okay, okay, I got the picture…" He looked down at his shoes as if he were checking the laces were done up properly. "I… I think I'd like you all there… Including you…" He looked back up. "That's if you want to."

"Of course I want to be there, if that's what you want."

"It is."

"Okay."

"Thanks."

There was a moment's uneasy silence.

"Gordon… You know we're all going to be there to support you through your divorce, don't you?"

Gordon managed a chuckle. "You're assuming that we all live long enough to see it go through the legal processes."

Scott managed a wry grin of his own. "Yes."

Gordon looked his brother in the eye. "I know."

"I'm not trying to run your life, but, and tell me to butt out if you want to, are you sure you still want to get divorced? I know that I tried to talk you out of the marriage to start with, but if you have second thoughts about divorcing Marina, or you decide that you want to make the decision after we've finished what we've got to do, then I'll back you one hundred percent."

"Thanks… I'll admit that it's been preying on my mind. I barely got any sleep last night…"

"I thought you looked tired."

"But I know that divorcing Marina is the right thing to do. I simply don't love her any more. At least if we start the ball rolling now, she won't have any doubts that the marriage is over, and will feel free to do what she wants, without feeling encumbered by an AWOL husband in what possibly will be the last few months of her life."

"I hope she realises that you were thinking of her when you made the decision."

"Knowing Marina, she probably realises that she's only got a few months to try to work out how she can bleed every last cent out of me. She'll be ruthless once she knows that International Rescue is going to attempt to save the world."

Scott only just managed to hide his surprise at Gordon's apparent about face. "Don't worry; we're not going to let Marina get more than she's entitled to." He turned for the door. "I'll go and let everyone know your plans. We'll all be in the lounge when you're ready to leave."

"Scott!"

Scott turned back. "Yes?"

Gordon seemed embarrassed. "Thanks for your support. I… I don't deserve it."

"Hey, what happened happened in the past," Scott reminded him. "You're still my little brother and I want to help you as much as I can. And if I get too…" he tried to think of the appropriate word, "…bossy, just let me know and I'll back away."

"Don't do that," Gordon begged. "We're going to need your bossiness over the next few months."

"I appreciate your vote of confidence." Scott opened the door. "We'll see you in the lounge."

-I-R-

-F-A-B-

Jeff Tracy's home, externally, looked like what you'd expect the home of a billionaire to look like. Nestled in palatial grounds, it rose up at the end of a long driveway, exuding an aura of wealth and exclusivity.

It was the exclusivity that had attracted Jeff to the property. Not because of a snobbish desire to set himself above his fellow man, but because it enabled him to hide his crippled body away from the rest of society. Before his stroke, he'd been a skilled orator, unafraid to stand in front of a stadium full of people to inspire them with a rousing speech. Now, with only his nurse and his family able to understand him, he shunned contact with others for fear of embarrassing himself and his visitors.

Scott rang the door to the house. He doubted that Jeff would have expected such a courtesy, but as this house had never been his home, he'd always felt that his father should be accorded this respect.

Nurse Sara opened the door and her face lit up when she saw her employer's sons and daughter-in-law on the step. "I don't think your father was expecting you today," she admitted as she stood back to let them into the house. "It will be a wonderful surprise for him."

"How is he today?" Scott asked.

"He's well and will be much better after seeing you all."

"Let's hope so." Sara detected a grim undertone in Scott's reply. "Where's he hiding?"

"Where he always is at this time of the day; in the summerhouse reading the morning papers. Would you like me to ask Mr Kyrano to bring you all some coffee?" Sara, well used to the way that Scott always took the lead, directed the question to him.

"No, not yet. Some of us won't be staying for long."

The nurse was disappointed. Her patient always seemed much happier after a visit from his family.

"We know we can trust your discretion," Scott continued, "but we have something personal we have to discuss with him. We'd appreciate some privacy."

"Of course! Nothing serious I hope."

"I'm getting divorced, and these guys are all here to support me when I tell Dad." Gordon offered the excuse with no qualms or hesitation. It was the truth and the belief that she knew the reason for their visit would ensure that the nurse would keep her distance.

"I am sorry to hear that, Gordon," Sara exclaimed. "Marina was…" She hesitated, trying to think of something positive about the woman who had never failed to increase her patient's blood pressure.

"Yep, that sums Marina up," Gordon quipped, and Sara reddened. "It's all right. I know she's not everyone's favourite person. Dad's going to be pleased that we're separating." He squared his shoulders. "Come on. Let's get this over and done with."

The summerhouse was a little latticework-walled building in the middle of the expansive lawn at the rear of the property. It was big enough to seat the Tracy family with ease and many a family gathering had been held within its walls. Kyrano's gardens circled the structure far enough away so that conversations could be held without fear of being overheard, and so that anyone approaching would be seen long before they could intrude on the discussion.

Jeff was deep in contemplation of one of the nation's dailies when the group approached across the noise-deadening grass. His hoverchair was parked against the wall, where Sara had left it after she'd assisted him into his seat, and a small control panel recessed into the edge of the table housed an intercom ready to summon assistance. He looked up in surprise when Scott knocked on the summerhouse's frame.

He smiled. "_What are you all doing here?"_

"Come to see you, of course," Scott replied. "Anything of interest in the papers?"

"_Only the usual."_ Using his stronger right hand, Jeff reached across his body and closed the paper.

He looked at his sons shrewdly. He knew them like the back of his hand, and he could sense there was something important that they had to tell him and wondered if he already knew what that was. He reflected that the last time they'd wore those expressions had been one terrible day when they'd broken the news to him that they were planning on dissolving International Rescue.

It had taken Jeff a long time to get over the announcement. He could understand the reasons given as to why the decision had been made, but couldn't shake the deep-seated belief, and associated shame, that the whole thing had been his (and his debilitating stroke's) fault.

He was therefore surprised when the rest of the group kept back to let Gordon step forward and claim the chair on his father's right. Alan was the next to move and he sat next to his brother. Then the rest of them shifted closer, as if they were forming a protective cocoon around their second youngest brother.

Jeff eyed Gordon with the kind of speculative gaze he used to use on a potential business proposal.

"Dad…" Gordon laid a hand on Jeff's arm. "I have something to tell you." He glanced at his father and then, unable to face him any more, looked away.

There was an extended pause as Jeff waited with long-practised patience.

After a minute Scott placed a reassuring hand on Gordon's shoulder and Jeff was relieved to see that Gordon accepted it without rancour or comment. Whatever had happened that had caused the rift between those two; it had clearly been patched up.

Alan broke the silence. "Do you want us to tell him, Gordon?"

Gordon shook his head. "Dad…" and this time he managed to lock eyes with his father. "I've told Marina that I want a divorce."

Jeff said nothing, but questions chased one another through his mind. What had caused Gordon to make this decision? Had his son done something that made him feel that he could no longer stay in the marriage? More plausible; had Marina? How much thought had gone into this decision? They'd only been married seven months; had the pair of them done all they could to make the marriage work? Or were they merely throwing it away as Jeff would discard this newspaper when he'd finished with it? At least Kyrano would find good use for the paper in his garden, but what good could come from the separation of two lives that had thought they were meant to live together as one for ever more?

At least there were no children involved.

Then Jeff wondered if Gordon had found himself a good solicitor to ensure that Marina wasn't awarded more than she was entitled. There was no way in heck that he'd let that irritating, obnoxious, condescending, little money-grubber get her hands onto any of _his_ money…

"Dad…?" Gordon peered anxiously into his father's eyes, which had clouded over when he'd made the announcement. "Are you all right? I know you said it would all end in tears, and you were right about that, and it's not that I hate her or anything like that, but I think it's the best thing to do, what with the possible end of the world and everything, and it'll be fairer on Marina, and me, if we start legal proceedings right away and…"

He stopped his breathless monologue when Jeff gave him a lopsided smile and managed to swing his weaker left hand over so that it was sitting on Gordon's. The limb was almost paralysed and Gordon got a shock to realise that rather than feeling cold and dead, it was warm and alive. _"Is this what you really want?"_

Gordon nodded. "I've put a lot of thought into it… I've barely thought of anything else."

"_Have you considered a trial separation first?"_ Jeff hated suggesting this; he wanted that woman out of his family's life. But in his mind marriage was a contract between two people that was meant to last forever. The contract shouldn't be broken without good reason, and the fact that he held a low opinion of one signatory had no bearing on whether or not it should be upheld.

"No. But I think it'll be fairer on Marina if we make a clean break of it. If she's only got four months left to live, let her enjoy it the way she wants to, without me hanging around her neck like an albatross."

Jeff's eyes slid across to the newspaper's headline. **Could International Rescue do anything?** it blared, as had nearly every other media publication. It was almost a concerted attack by the world's press to try to draw International Rescue out of retirement. But, Jeff wondered, did Gordon's words mean that they couldn't, or even wouldn't, try?

"We're all right behind Gordon," Scott said and, as everyone else nodded, Jeff could see that he meant it figuratively as well as literally.

"_Do you need a lawyer?"_

"I haven't contacted one yet," Gordon admitted. "I wanted to tell you first."

"_If you want to engage one of my lawyers, or if I can help in some other way, just ask. I'll be right behind you too."_

A smile of relief blossomed across Gordon's face. "Thanks, Dad."

Jeff saw Scott's hand squeeze his brother's shoulder before the elder Tracy claimed the seat next to Alan, directly opposite their father. The rest of the family took it as an unspoken invitation to find seats of their own.

Jeff glanced across at Virgil. He knew that wasn't a wig on his son's head. _"Get your hair cut,"_ he demanded.

"Yes, Sir."

Knowing that Virgil had no intention of heeding his demands and satisfied that his paternal duty had been done, Jeff turned his attention back to Scott. There had to be more to this meeting than Gordon's admission. _"Well?"_

Scott looked about furtively. "Can we talk? Is there any chance we'll be overheard?"

Jeff almost laughed at his eldest's caution. It had been many years since he'd needed to worry about industrial espionage or had held any fears for International Rescue's secrets. _"The only bugs around here are in Kyrano's garden."_

Scott smiled at the joke, before becoming serious. "We've just come from the island." He tapped the newspaper headline. "We're going to try."

Jeff nodded. _"So you think you can do something?"_

"We don't know for sure, but we've got a plan. Brains is working off hypotheses, so there are no guarantees."

"_How are the Thunderbirds?"_

"Thunderbird Three looks okay, but…" Scott ran through the list of damage to the other craft.

Jeff looked grim. _"Can you repair them all in time?"_

"It's going to take a lot of work, but yes, we think we can."

"_What's the plan?"_

With no embellishments, but not hiding the dangers they were going to be facing, Scott told him. "But what you don't know, and we only found out last night, is that it's not only Doomsday that we've got to worry about." He explained about asteroid 2070SB.

Jeff was alarmed by the news. _"And this asteroid is going to hit the Earth next year?"_

"Probably. Leaving September 25th, Alan and Tin-Tin are going to take Thunderbird Three and attach a rocket booster to it to try to deflect it into Jupiter."

Jeff looked at his daughter-in-law who held his gaze unwaveringly. He wasn't happy at the idea of her endangering her life, but knew better than to speak out against it. When she wanted she had a will of iron the equal of any of his sons, and appeals to her father to try to change her mind would be in vain, especially since Alan appeared to be in full agreement.

"They'll be gone for about four months," Scott was saying. "Which means that John'll have to spend that long in Thunderbird Five."

Jeff shifted his gaze to his second eldest. _"That's the longest you've ever been alone in space."_

"I know. I'll be okay."

Scott shifted uneasily. He'd debated with himself over whether or not to give Jeff the full story, and had decided that his father would want to know the worst. "To keep things interesting, Brains predicts that Tracy Island volcano is going to erupt in three months…"

"_Three months?! But the volcanic field is extinct!"_

"Apparently it's all related to Doomsday. We've been feeling foreshocks and we think that's what caused the damage to the Thunderbirds."

Jeff nodded. That made sense.

"Everyone's on board and we're all committed to doing what we can, but we're going to have to work hard. Harder than we'd ever done before." Scott paused. This was going to be the hardest bit of all. "It means that we won't have any spare time to visit you."

Jeff felt numb. His visits from his sons were what kept him going and stopped him from falling completely into a pit of despair. With a supreme effort he pushed down the feelings of sadness and isolation that were already threatening to swamp him.

"But we'll still be able to phone you," Alan piped up, sensing his father's depression. "We know you'll demand a daily debriefing."

"And we'll need to be in contact with you just to keep our sanity," John added.

"Yeah," Gordon agreed. "We're going to go stir crazy stuck on the island with Alan and with no chance of escape."

Scott regained control of the conversation. "We've given ourselves today to get our affairs in order. I'm going to hand in my resignation to Tracy Aviation and go and see Stewie. Gordon's going to see the lawyer and get the divorce proceedings underway. Alan's going to tell his team he won't be racing…"

"If he wants to I'll let Mike Rosken take my place," Alan added. "He's got talent and it'll give the kid a chance to show what he's made of."

"Gus…" Scott caught his mistake. "Ah… Virgil's going to check that his latest exhibition is being set up the way he wants it."

"Maybe you could go and see it?" Virgil suggested. "Let me know how it's going?"

Jeff nodded, but, like his demand to Virgil to cut his hair, no one really expected him to do what he'd been asked.

John glanced at Scott and received a nod indicating that it was his turn to take the lead. "I have a problem, Dad."

Jeff pulled himself together. _"A problem?"_

"Yes. Thunderbird Five's going to take a lot of work to get her operational again. I'm not going to be able to keep the business going _and_ get everything ready for September 25th. I need to find someone that I can trust to take control of Tracy Industries, so I'll be free to concentrate on International Rescue."

His curiosity piqued, Jeff turned to him. _"Who do you have in mind?"_

John grinned. "You."

Jeff stared at his second eldest, wondering if there'd been some delayed damage to his hearing. "Mih?"

"Yes, you!"

Jeff looked dumbfounded. As stunned as he had been the day that Gordon had brought home this tramp of a woman and announced that they were going to be married. _"Me?"_

"Why not? Can you think of anyone better?"

"_But I can't talk properly."_ Jeff hated admitting to any weaknesses, but this was a fact that couldn't be overlooked.

"That's all right. Robert can be the public face of the company, but you'll be the driving force behind the scenes. My secretary, Emma, will be your assistant and all correspondence will go through her. She's wonderful…" John realised that what he'd just said wasn't exactly professional. "That is, she's been a great help to me and I know you two will get on well. If you agree, I'll give her a call now and tell her to bring all the important files around this afternoon and the three of us can go through them together and bring you up to speed. How does that sound?"

"_Me?"_

Gordon tapped his father on the arm. "What's Tracy Industries without a Tracy at the helm?"

"Dead in the water," John responded. "How about it, Dad? Are you game?"

Take control of his company again? It was a stupid idea. It wasn't feasible. It wouldn't work. The markets would rebel. Customers would flee in droves. It would spell the death knell for the business…

Jeff pulled himself together. It was a challenge. It would give him an interest beyond this property's boundaries. It would give him a sense of purpose. It would help relieve John of some of the burden he was carrying and leave him to concentrate on helping his brothers save the world! He would mean that he, Jeff Tracy, had a small role in combating Doomsday!

"_All right, I'll do it."_

John's face opened up into a wide smile. "Great! I'll call Emma and Robert now and let them know about our plans. Excuse me…" He pulled his cell phone from out of his pocket and moved outside the summerhouse so he could make the call without intruding on any further discussions.

"The public version of why we're leaving our present lives and retreating to Tracy Island is that we've decided that we want to spend the planet's final months together," Scott explained, "reliving the playboy lifestyle… It leaves you out in the cold though."

"_I've demanded that I take control of Tracy Industries again,"_ Jeff told him. _"Just to prove that I can still do it. Because if the world is going to end it won't matter if I make a mess of it." _

"While all the while we know that the world's not going to end and that you're going to lead Tracy Industries on to bigger and better things!" Alan told him and Jeff smiled at his youngest's morale boosting speech.

"We're going to wait before we tell the World President that we're reforming," Scott added. "We don't want to get people's hopes up until we have some idea of whether or not we have a chance of success. We might start work in earnest and discover that the equipment is in such bad shape it will be impossible to get them operational in the three months we have available to us. We still haven't been inside Two…" John re-entered the summerhouse. "What did they say?"

John pocketed his cell phone. "They're both shocked, but willing. I'm going to have to give Robert a full debriefing tomorrow. Can you guys handle one day without me?"

"Your work won't start in earnest until we get to Thunderbird Five anyway," Scott told him. "So one day won't hurt."

Jeff folded up his newspaper. _"Virgil!"_ he commanded. _"Get me my 'chair."_

Virgil, obeying this order, leapt out of his seat and drove his father's transportation over so it settled on the floor next to where Jeff was sitting. Then he reached out to assist the invalid into the hoverchair. With a growl Jeff waved him clear and attempted to transfer himself in to it unaided. Virgil backed off with his hands raised in mock surrender and a grin to his brothers. It looked like if nothing else, they'd managed to reignite Jeff Tracy's independent spirit.

Like the leader of a wagon train and with the command of _"Kitchen!"_ Jeff waved his family onward.

Kyrano was just removing some baking from the oven when the group arrived. His face lit up, especially when Tin-Tin hurried forward. "Why are you all here?" he asked, placing his tray on the bench so he could receive her kiss of greeting.

"We couldn't resist the lure of your baking," Alan told him, swiping a bun. Juggling it until it was cool enough to be eaten; he let out an indignant, "Hey!" when Gordon grabbed it out of mid-air and took a bite.

Ignoring his youngest sons' antics, Jeff placed the newspaper on the table. He pointed at the headline. _"The boys and Tin-Tin are going to try."_

Kyrano beamed. "I knew Inter-national Rescue would not fail the world."

Scott had claimed one of the freshly baked buns for himself. "We can't guarantee anything, Kyrano, but we're going to give it our best shot."

"_They're going to be spending the next three months getting the equipment ready,"_ Jeff explained. _"Kyrano, if you are willing, I'd like you to go with them."_

There was a multitude of protests. "We can't do that, Dad!" John exclaimed. "You need him!"

"_It goes without saying that I'll miss your company,"_ Jeff continued as if he hadn't heard the protests, _"but I can make do with any old cook and gardener. Our kids are going to be busy getting everything ready and they're not going to have the time or energy to look after themselves. I'd appreciate it if you'd be there to keep an eye on them all and make sure that they eat properly. Also they say that they'll call me every evening, but I know that they won't always have the time or inclination. I want you to be my eyes and ears."_

Kyrano bowed. "It would be an honour and a privilege to serve Inter-national Rescue again. But I will not leave here until I am assured that a suitable replacement chef has been employed." He turned to Scott. "At what time will you be leaving?"

"We've all got things we've got to do, but we'll be back later this afternoon," Scott told him. "John's not leaving until tomorrow."

"Then I will prepare enough meals for you all for a week. Mister John can take them when he leaves tomorrow."

"Do you think you'll be able to employ a replacement cook?" Virgil asked. "How many people are going to want to start a job when they think they've only got four months left to live?"

"_I'll make it worth their while,"_ Jeff growled.

Scott looked at his watch. "Those of us who are flying out had better get moving," he instructed. "Are you coming, Virgil?"

Virgil picked up his bag. "I'm ready when you are."

"I'd better get moving too," Alan admitted "to give Mike a chance to get over the shock and get a feel for the car. Do you want to come, Honey, or would you rather stay here?"

Tin-Tin smiled at him. "If I may use your father's phone, I would prefer to stay here and start ordering supplies. I can meet you at the track later."

"_Use the one in my study. You won't be disturbed there. Gordon? Do you want the number of a lawyer?"_

"Uh, yeah," Gordon looked a little embarrassed. "And once I've spoken to him then I'd better go and hand in my notice at the research institute."

-I-R-

-F-A-B-

On the flight to New York, Scott and Virgil had made plans. Virgil would contact their old suppliers (if they were still in existence) while Scott cleared out his desk and tried to make his peace with Stewie. Then, while Virgil slipped back into his Gustav persona and oversaw the final touches to his exhibition (and hid his blue hair from those who knew Virgil Tracy), Scott would do the rounds, collecting the orders his brother had made earlier.

His desk now bare, his work colleagues stunned, and his former boss feeling a combination of dismay and relief, Scott knocked on the door to Stewie's house. It was opened by his young friend's grandmother, who greeted him with a big smile. She'd never quite been able to believe how lucky her grandson had been to be paired up with such a personable, wealthy, attentive Big Brother. "Scott! Come in!" she exclaimed. "Would you like a cup of coffee?"

"Ah, no thanks. I can't stay for long. Virgil's waiting for me out in the truck. I had to tell Stuart something before I left."

"Oh…" She looked past his shoulder out to the hired vehicle. "Would Virgil like to come in and wait?"

Scott fixed her with a big smile that felt forced. "He's fine. He's got lots of phone calls he has to make."

"I suppose he's finalising everything for his exhibition."

"Ah… Yeah… Is Stuart in his room?"

"Yes. You know where it is, Scott. And if you change your mind about that coffee, just let me know."

Scott had a feeling that before the afternoon was out, he'd want something stronger than coffee. He knocked on Stewie's door. "Hi."

The tall, lanky teenager with the mop of unruly black hair was seated at his desk. He treated Scott to a big grin when he saw him. "Hiya, Big Bro."

"Hey, Little Bro. Watcha doing? Studying?"

"Yep. I'm going to cruise through that certificate."

Scott felt a warm glow of almost paternal pride. "Of course you will. You're as good a pilot as I was at your age."

Stewie's face was alight with pleasure at the compliment. "And then once I'm done we can go out and party!"

"Ah, yeah…" Scott hesitated. "About that…"

Stewie lost his smile. "What?"

"I'm sorry, Stewie, but I won't be able to make it."

"You can't make the party?"

"No… I won't be in the States on Wednesday… I… I'm going to be on Tracy Island. I'm leaving this afternoon."

"Tracy Island! Why?"

"Ah…" Scott wished they'd come up with a more acceptable story. "My brothers and I want to spend some time together."

A hurt look crossed Stewie's face. "But you'll be able to come back won't you? You'll come back when I get my private pilot's certificate?"

"I'm sorry, Stewie, but I can't."

"You can't?!" The younger man was starting to get angry. "Why not?"

"Because my brothers and I… That is… We…"

Stewie's eyes flashed. "You'd rather spend time with them than with me!"

"They are my family…"

"And you're supposed to be my Big Brother! How long are you going to be away for?"

Scott was feeling overwhelmed by the feelings of guilt. "Until after Doomsday..."

"Until Doo... That's four months away!"

"Yes..."

"You can't do that! You signed a contract to say that you'd visit me regularly!"

"And if I could I would..."

"I don't believe you!" Stewie hissed. "You don't want to see me any more!"

"Yes, I do, but…"

"If you don't want to be my Big Brother, then fine, you don't have to be. I'm letting you off the hook one year early."

"No," Scott protested, feeling as if a knife was ripping him apart inside. "That's not…"

Stewie turned his back. "Get out!"

Scott took a step forward. "Stewie… Please… Listen to me…"

"I said, get out!"

"Stuart!" It was his grandmother. She looked between her grandson and his Big Brother. "What's going on?"

Stewie pointed an accusing finger at Scott. "I want him to leave my room! I don't want to see him again!"

"Something's come up," Scott explained. "I won't be able to make it on Wednesday."

"Oh…" She seemed genuinely disappointed. "Why not?"

Stewie spun around. "His brothers are more important to him than I am!" he spat.

"Stuart," she reprimanded. "You know how close Scott is to his family."

"One day! Couldn't he put _me_ first for one lousy day? For _my_ birthday?! I'm only going to be 17 once! I may never have another birthday again!"

Scott made another attempt at reconciliation. "Stewie, if it were humanly possible I would be here. If I could fly halfway across the Pacific Ocean to be with you and still do what needs to be done on Tracy Island, I would. I've been with you every step of the way through your flight training and nothing has given me more pleasure than seeing you succeed…"

"You, you, you," Stewie sneered. "It's all been about you, hasn't it? I'm just another trophy to you, aren't I?!"

"What? Trophy…? No… I…"

"You're just some old guy who thinks that because you've got money you can pick and choose who you play with until you're sick of 'em and then you just throw 'em away!"

"Stuart!" his grandmother snapped. "Apologise to Scott!"

"NO!" Stewie turned his back on the two adults, picked up his notes and tossed them into the bin.

Scott looked at his watch. Time was passing and they still had a lot to do. "I've got to go," he admitted. "Stewie, I know you don't want to believe me at the moment, but I am sorry. Will you give me a call and let me know how you did, on Wednesday? I'll keep my cell phone close by."

Stewie, his face buried in a football magazine, didn't so much as grunt.

His grandmother escorted Scott to the door. "I am sorry," she apologised.

"Don't be," he responded. "It's my fault." He looked back in the direction of the teenager's room. "Even if I can't be there, I still want him to have a party. You'll send me the bill?"

"Scott, you don't have to pay for everything for him."

"Yes, I do. I want him to have a celebration when he passes. I at least owe him that."

"Are you sure you won't be able to make it?" she asked. "You've been such an important part of Stuart's life these last six years. I shudder to think what would have become of him if you hadn't been there."

"He would have been all right," Scott reassured her. "He's a good kid. He's just sore at me at the moment…" he looked back down the hallway towards the shut bedroom door. "And I don't blame him." He tried to smile. "I'll see you later, Mrs K."

-F-A-B-

Virgil checked his notes and then dialled a number. It rang three times before someone answered. _"Good afternoon. Mastic Machinery."_

"Good afternoon," Virgil responded. "Could I have your sales department, please?" He waited a moment longer as he was transferred.

"Good afternoon. Sales."

"Hi. This is Virgil Tracy of…"

"Virgil? It's Ben Honeycutt. It's been ages since we've heard from you. How are you?"

Virgil chuckled. "I'm fine, Ben. And how are you?"

"Oh, you know how it is, still grinding away nine-to-five. What can we do for you?"

"Do you still stock your m12 by 150 hargon bolts?"

"Hargon?! We stopped stocking them about four or five years ago."

"Oh," Virgil replied, disappointed. It looked like they'd be wasting time trying to find a new supplier. "That's a pity."

"We went out of them because we now stock something better. Have you heard of herium?"

"Herium? No, I haven't."

"You have been out of the engineering scene for a while!" Ben chuckled, and Virgil had to agree with him. It was a fact that was beginning to cause him some concern. "Herium's got twice the tensile strength of hargon, but only half the weight."

"Okay," Virgil said, with some misgivings. "In that case we, I mean my brother Scott, will be around to pick up two hundred m12 by 150 herium bolts later this afternoon. If they're suitable for our needs we'll get you to send us a larger order later."

"Two-hundred M-twelve by one fifty herium bolts," Ben enunciated. "Do you want washers and nuts too?"

"Yes, please. Can you put them all on purchase order V-0042, assuming that we've still got an account with you. Or would you rather Scott paid when he gets there?"

"Let me check…" Virgil could hear Ben typing into a computer. "Tracy… Yep, you're still in the system, so we'll put it on your account. What are you making this time?"

Virgil spun the official line. "My brothers and I have decided to spend the four months before Doomsday together on the island and I thought I'd make the most of the opportunity to build some of the designs I've come up with over the last few years." This wasn't strictly a lie, he told himself. Some of the plans that lay on his workbench might yet find service with International Rescue.

"Okay, Virgil. Your order's in the system. Tell Scott to quote sales order number S-O fourteen - twenty five - thirty eight, when he gets here. That'll mean he won't have to hang around for so long. And trust me, you're going to love herium. All of Tracy Aviation's competitors use them." Ben laughed.

Virgil saw the door to Stewie's house open and his brother leave. Scott's head was down and his shoulders were slumped, and it didn't take an almost telepathic link between the pair of them to tell Virgil that things hadn't gone well. "I'll keep that in mind, Ben," he said, rushing to finish the call before his brother reached the car. "If we purchase some more from you, you'll know that we love them as much as they do." He said goodbye as Scott opened the door and collapsed on to the seat. "He didn't take it well, huh?"

Scott shook his head and put the key in the ignition.

"Give him time, Scott. He'll get over it. We all do eventually."

Scott put on his seatbelt and started the truck.

Virgil realised that his brother didn't want to talk about what had happened in the house. He held out his tablet PC. "I've tried to list all the suppliers in such a way that you'll cover the least amount of ground between them," he explained. "And I've written what you're getting from each place, the purchase order number, and in some cases the sales order number to quote beneath the name of the company… Okay?"

Scott took the tablet, looked at it, nodded, and handed it back.

He didn't say another word until he'd dropped Virgil off at his place.

-F-A-B-

"I'm going to drive for Tracy Racing?! Oh wow! Thank you, Mr Tracy!"

Alan chuckled at the 18-year-old's enthusiasm. He'd once been like that; young, talented, keen, full of self assurance, and with no sense of his own mortality. That was until he'd survived a few narrow scrapes and witnessed how Gordon's accident had devastated his family. "How many times do I have to tell you, Mike, that my name's Alan. When you start calling me Mr Tracy, I start wondering what my father's doing here."

"I know," Mike looked embarrassed. "It's just that you've been my hero for as long as I can remember..." and Alan suddenly felt old, "and I can't quite believe that _you_ want _me_ to drive for you. Are you sure you've made the right decision? I know there are older drivers out there with more experience than me..."

"And you'll never get the experience if you don't get the chance to show what you can do," Alan interrupted. "I was lucky. I had a father who could afford to support me when I was starting out, and now I'm hoping to give you the same chance. I'm not expecting you to win every race right off the bat, but you're good enough that you won't embarrass yourself and you'll do the team proud. And as you get more experience I'm sure we'll see you at the top of the podium."

Mike glowed at the compliment. "What are you going to be doing for the next few months, Mist, er, Alan?"

"Taking a trip down memory lane. My brothers and I spent seven years kicking back on my father's tropical island and we aim to spend our last four months doing the same."

Mike lost some of his joie de vivre. "Do you think we're all going to die?"

"Do I think we're all going to die?" Alan hesitated. "Honestly, Mike, I don't know. But something tells me that a miracle's going to happen and that this planet we live on isn't going to wipe us all out." He grinned. "And when that happens, you'd better be prepared to vacate that car, 'cos I'll be back... And then maybe, just maybe... this will become a two car team."

He hadn't thought that Mike could have got any more excited, but he was wrong. The young man's eyes were practically on fire in excitement. "Me? Race alongside you!? Oh, wow! Mr Tr, ah, Alan! Thank you!"

Alan looked at his watch. "Let's do a couple of practise laps so you can show me what you've made of... Go on..." He grinned at Mike's excited face. "Don't forget that even when I'm not here I've told our manager to keep me informed of everything that goes on."

"I won't forget." Mike grabbed his hand and started pumping it. "Thank you, Alan. Thanks for everything!"

"You're welcome, Mike. Just remember to keep your head and that just because people think the world's going to end soon, that doesn't give you an excuse to be reckless. I don't want to be dragged away from my tropical paradise just because you've smeared yourself all over the track. Okay?"

Mike nodded. "Okay. I won't let you down," he promised.

"I know." Alan thought of the work that was ahead of him. "And I'll try not to do the same to you."

Mike looked confused. "Huh?"

Alan chuckled. "Don't worry about it. Just relax and enjoy the ride. Now, let's go and do those laps. I haven't got much time and I still have a phone call I want to make before I leave."

-F-A-B-

Scott had regained a little of his composure by the time Virgil exited the truck. "All I've got to do is go to these places and ask for our orders?"

"That's all. Even an engineering numbskull like you should be able to do that without too much difficulty."

The attempt at cheering his brother up didn't work. "Okay," Scott agreed. "I'll meet you back here when I've got everything. Will you be ready by then?"

"I should be. I'm only going to be checking that the exhibition looks okay. It'll probably take me longer to put all my paraphernalia on." As he closed the truck door, Virgil expected Scott to make some comment about his choice of costume, but instead his brother stared out through the car's windscreen. "Are you okay?"

"Yeah. I'm fine. See you soon." Without another look, Scott pressed down on the accelerator, spun the wheel, and the truck peeled out into the traffic.

Virgil watched him go. Then he made a decision. Rather than heading up to his apartment, he headed down into the attached garage, where he let himself into his car. Following the route they'd just travelled, he drove back to Stewie's place. Once there he hurried up the path to the front door, where he knocked.

Stewie's grandmother answered the door. "Hello?"

"Hi, Mrs K." Virgil smiled at her as he removed his sunglasses, and wondered not for the first time, why he'd felt the need to change his appearance so much. "It's me. Virgil Tracy."

"Oh! Virgil!" Surprise was quickly followed by embarrassment. "I'm sorry; I didn't recognise you with the blue hair."

"Don't worry about it. This is what I wear for my alter ego. Scott did tell you about Gustav?"

"Yes, he did…" The elderly lady hesitated. "Ah… What can I do for you?"

"Do you think Stewie will talk to me? It's not Scott's fault that he can't make it next week, and I want to try and convince him of that."

Stewie's grandmother looked relived. "I wish you would. He won't listen to me and I don't like the idea of him and Scott falling out. Scott's been such an important part of Stuart's life these last few years."

"And Stewie's been important to Scott," Virgil told her. "Ah… I'm sorry, but I don't want to rush this, but I'm due at Gustav's exhibition and I don't have a lot of time."

"You'd better come with me then." Virgil was led down to a closed door. "Stuart…" Stewie's grandma knocked on the door. "There's someone here to see you."

"Who is it?"

"It's Scott's brother, Virgil."

"I don't want to see him."

"Please, Stuart. Talk to him."

"No."

Virgil decided to speak up. "Stewie…" he began, "I won't take up too much of your time, but I want to explain why Scott can't make…"

The door was flung open and Stewie stood there. His chin was jutting out in an approximation of manly pride, but his eyes were red. "Why should I talk to you?"

"Because I would rather that you were mad with me than with Scott. It's not his fault that he can't make it on Wednesday."

"Not his fault?" Stewie stomped back into his room, and with a nod of thanks to 'Mrs K', Virgil followed him. "I thought this was a free country. I thought Scott was an adult; able to make his own decisions."

"He is. But part of being an adult is accepting your responsibilities, even if honouring those responsibilities isn't what you really want to do."

"Responsibilities? What about his responsibilities to me? He promised me he'd be there when I took my test."

"I know, and he feels bad that he has to break his promise, but we made him promise that he'd stay with us," Virgil lied, desperate to shift the blame from his brother. "Look... I know how you feel..."

"You know how I feel?!" Stewie sneered. "Yeah, right. You've got no idea how I feel."

Virgil kept his cool. "Actually I do. For years Scott and I had planned about what we'd do to celebrate when I finally got to fly solo. Like you did, I was going to take the examination on my 16th birthday and then, when I passed, we were going to have a party too. Only it didn't happen."

As he'd hoped, he'd aroused the teenager's interest enough to listen. "Why not?"

"Scott got accepted for some pre-Air Force training. At first I was excited for him. I thought it was a great opportunity and I knew that he was going to enjoy the experience. Then I realised that it meant that he wouldn't be home on August 15th. I couldn't stop him from going, and I knew he felt bad that he was going to miss being there for me... But that didn't stop me from behaving like a complete idiot."

"You did?"

"Yes. That evening Scott called to wish me a happy birthday and to find out how I did with the flight. Now, I could have behaved like an adult and talked to him, but instead I decided to punish him by refusing to speak to him... I knew he regretted not being there. I knew there was no way that he could have been there, but I still went and ruined the day for both of us..." Virgil paused. "I've never forgiven myself for doing that, Stewie." He looked at the teenager earnestly. "Don't make my mistake. You'll only feel guilty for the rest of your life."

"But you were only 16. I'm going to be 17!"

"17's almost an adult. Don't you want to behave like one?"

"I thought you four were all adults too. Not little kids who needed your diapers changed."

"You know Scott, and you know what his priorities are. It's always been family first and you a very close second." There was that sneer of disbelief again. "I know it seems selfish to you, but the four of us have decided that we want to spend our final months with our big brother."

Stewie muttered, "Babies" under his breath.

Virgil persisted. "Before he met you, the five of us lived together on Tracy Island. They were some of the best years of our lives and we want to try to relive that. And if Scott wasn't there it wouldn't be the same."

"Not even for one day?"

"We've put so much pressure on him that Scott feels that he can't escape his duty to us."

"What about his duty to me?" Stewie demanded.

"Can't you forgive him and blame us instead?" Virgil begged. "I think I know Scott better than anyone and I can tell that he's feeling bad enough as it is."

"You think you know him, do you?" Stewie taunted. "If you think you know him so well, did he tell you that he split up with Farrah?"

Taken aback at the apparent change of topic, Virgil hesitated. "Ah, yeah… Yes, he did."

"When?"

"He told me yesterday."

"Yesterday?" Stewie laughed. "Do you know when it happened?"

Virgil was beginning to feel uncomfortable at where this was leading. "No."

"Now, let's see..." Stewie made a play of trying to remember. "It was a little while ago... If I remember correctly it was about the time of Gran's birthday... We were going to go out to celebrate and Scott didn't want to come because the husband gave him a black eye. The poor guy was devastated and he told me all about it. He came to _me_ for support, because he said he couldn't trust anyone else…" Enjoying the feeling of power and superiority he felt, he turned to face Scott's brother. "It happened eight months ago." He studied the older man's reaction with some satisfaction.

Astonishment closely followed by disbelief, preceded the wounded expression that settled on Virgil's face. "Eight months?"

"Yeah."

"Eight months?" Eight months and Virgil never knew the pain his closest brother had been through. How many phone calls? How many emails? How many texts? How many family get togethers had happened in that time and yet Scott had never told him.

And just how close were they if he'd never realised that something was troubling Scott...?

"He told me he couldn't tell you," Stewie was jeering. "He told me that he didn't know you anymore. He told me I was the only one he could talk to!"

"He did?"

Stewie's delight at the pain he'd caused left him. He wasn't a mean-spirited kid, just angry that the most important man in his life had deserted him, and so he'd tried to punish one of those responsible. By the look on Virgil's face he'd succeeded beyond his expectations... And he hated himself for it. "Virgil..."

Virgil studied his watch, trying to hide his churning emotions. "I've got to get going. Scott and I are flying out to the island soon." He turned for the door and then remembering the reason why he'd come, half turned back, unable to look at the teenager. "Uh... Think about what I said, Stewie. This isn't Scott's fault."

"Virgil..." Stewie repeated, desperate to make amends. "What I sai..."

Virgil was equally desperate to leave, and he turned from the young man as Stewie took a step forward. "I'd better go... I hope you'll give him a call... I'll let myself out. I'll... See you later. Uh... Bye." He hurried out of the house.

Stewie slumped into his chair...

Virgil's original plan after he'd been dropped off home by Scott, had been to apply his Gustav disguise, head over to the art gallery to give his approval to the way his exhibition was shaping up, and then to head back home to meet up with Scott again. But his visit to Stewie's had changed all that.

He arrived at the gallery without any recollection of driving there. Angry with himself for driving recklessly and still upset over Stewie's revelations; he marched into the building and through to the office.

"Gus?" His manager looked up in surprise from the girlie magazine he was reading. He quickly hid it beneath a more appropriate periodical. "I thought you weren't going to be able to attend the show?"

"I'm not. I just want to see it. That's all."

"You're going to love it." The manager's voice was as oily as his hair, and Virgil wondered why he'd ever approached him. Then he reminded himself that it was because he wanted someone far removed from the world of Virgil Tracy, but with enough contacts that he had a chance to be accepted into the art world. "Come and see what we've done, Gus."

Virgil seethed. Gus wasn't his name. "Don't call me that!"

"Ah... Okay..." Nonplussed, the manager led the way into the main gallery. "Here we are, Gus... Ah, sorry, Gustav... What do you think of it?" He indicated the hall with a grand gesture.

Virgil looked around at all the paintings he'd slaved over that graced these walls. What did he think of it?

He hated it.

It represented how much he had changed over the last seven years and how far he'd drifted from his family.

Spying an empty trolley, the type used for transporting carefully crated artworks from one part of the gallery to another, he grabbed it. Pushing it over to the nearest painting, he tore the canvas down from the wall and threw onto it onto the cart.

"Hey!" his manager exclaimed, horrified by the way his commission was being ripped out from under his nose. "What are you doing, Gustav!?" He rushed over to stop the wanton destruction. "Stop it! You'll damage them!"

"Get out of my way!" Virgil pushed him clear, and hauled at the next painting; which was tossed on top of the first.

"Gustav! Think of what you're doing!"

"I know what I'm doing!" Another painting was consigned roughly to the trolley.

"You can't take that one! Mrs Pullman is going to pay thousands for that one!" Mrs Pullman was a wealthy trophy hunter whose latest target was Gustav, and had no scruples about spending a small fortune in order to buy her prize. Virgil had found himself trying to strike the balance between being friendly with a noted patron and avoiding her grasping hands and none too subtle hints. If she'd known the artist was really one of Jeff Tracy's sons she would have bought the entire collection just to stake a claim on him.

"Mrs Pullman is an ignorant woman who wouldn't know a work of art if it was hanging in Le Louvre." Several more paintings were consigned to Virgil's trolley.

"You're breaking our contract. You at least owe me the equivalent of the commission I would have earned from this exhibition!"

"Is that all you care about? Money?! The world's going to end and you're worried about your pay cheque?" Virgil hauled his smartphone out from his pocket and transferred an obscene amount from his account into the manager's. "That should be enough to cover your expenses for this show and to let me out of the contract. As far as I'm concerned our association is over!" He returned to his attack on the paintings.

The manager fired up his own smartphone and gaped at the large sum that had suddenly appeared in his bank account. "Where'd you get that much money from?"

But Virgil had cleared out the gallery. He pushed the trolley out to his car and loaded the paintings inside; jamming them in wherever they'd fit and not caring if he caused any damage. Then he pushed the trolley against the wall of the building, climbed into the driver's seat and, without a look back at the life he'd just left, accelerated away. Once home he threw the paintings into the lift, stabbed at the button to his floor, and when the doors opened on his apartment, dragged the artworks inside and tossed them into a corner. "I'll show him I haven't changed," he muttered. "I'll show him I am still Virgil Tracy. I'll show him I'm still his brother." He picked up a pair of scissors. "I'll show him I'm still me." He stormed into the bathroom. "I'll show him he can still trust me."

He looked in the mirror. A blue-hued hairy stranger stared back. He lifted the scissors...

His cell phone rang and he answered it. "Scott?"

"I'm outside, Virgil..." And, with a jolt, Virgil realised that it had been months, if not years, since Scott had called him Virg. "...are you ready to go?"

Virgil stared at the stranger in the mirror again. "I'm ready."

He hung up the phone, dropped the scissors on the cabinet, and walked out on his old life.

-I-R-

-F-A-B-

"Hiya, Penny." Alan smiled at the lady on the other end of the phone line.

Through the videophone's camera Lady Penelope graced him with a smile of her own. "Hello, Alan. How did your father take to the news?"

"I think he was pleased we're going to attempt something. He got a bit of a shock though, when John suggested that he take over the Tracy Industries again. For a moment I thought he was going to refuse."

"But he didn't?"

"No. He said he'll do it because it'll reduce the burden on John, but we know that he couldn't resist the challenge."

Lady Penelope gave a knowing nod. "That's what Jeff needs. Something to stimulate him."

"It's done that. He was already showing signs of being more independent."

"That's good, Alan. I'm glad. I shall pop over on occasion to, er, check up on him."

"Thanks, Penny. We'd all appreciate that. It's going to be hard not being able to visit him ourselves. He's asked Kyrano to move back to Tracy Island to keep an eye on us."

"That is an excellent idea," Lady Penelope approved. "I will admit that I did wonder who was going to look after you all."

"I've got to admit that I did too. And Tin-Tin's going to love having her father around again."

"Yes, she will. Now, Alan, if I am not intruding into private family matters, how did Jeff react to Gordon's news?"

"I think the only thing that stopped him from getting really physically excited is that he can't. He tried to play it cool for Gordon's sake, but I could tell that he was really pleased." Alan hesitated. "It's because of Gordon that I've called you, Penny."

"Is this the call you promised?"

"Yes. I'm in my trailer at the track because I know we won't be disturbed here and we'll be able to talk freely. You've seen how this divorce is affecting Gordon. He's wound so tightly we could use him to launch Thunderbird Three to Thunderbird Five. Scott's scared to approach him."

"If you will forgive my prying; what happened between Scott and Gordon?"

"We're as much in the dark as you are," Alan admitted. "Gordon hasn't told me and I'm pretty sure Scott hasn't discussed it with Virgil. We all decided that since they seem to have patched up their differences we're not going to worry about it. Maybe they'll tell us after the divorce has been finalised… Which brings me to why I've called you. I'd like you to do a little spying for me."

He saw the light of intrigue ignite in her cool blue eyes. "Spying?"

"On Marina. The way Gordon is at the moment he's liable to agree to any demands she makes, just to make the divorce as painless as possible while he worries about Doomsday. Now, I'm not saying that she doesn't deserve anything, Gordon entered the marriage with his eyes wide open and plenty of warnings from the rest of us, but that doesn't mean that she's entitled to any more than her fair share."

"But if that is the case, Alan, what can I do about it?" Lady Penelope enquired.

"John confided in me that Gordon told him on the flight over that he suspected Marina was having an affair. If it's true it could skew the judgement in Gordon's favour."

"And you want me to find evidence of this affair?"

"If you would. I could hire an ordinary private investigator, but I trust you and I know what you can do. There isn't a private eye anywhere who could do a better job."

"I appreciate your confidence in me." Lady Penelope's forehead creased in a light frown as she considered the task ahead. "It may not be the done thing, but in my present employment I have opportunities for investigation that would not be open to others..." She smiled at her friend. "What do your brothers say to me doing a bit of, er, sleuthing?"

"I haven't discussed it with them. I don't want Gordon to know what we're doing and the more of us who know, the bigger the chance that he'll overhear something he shouldn't. Besides everyone's got enough to worry about without wondering what you'll discover."

Lady Penelope nodded. "Then I shall keep it between you and me, Alan."

"Thanks."

"Yesterday, I got the feeling that you were a bit shocked at the idea of restarting International Rescue," Lady Penelope admitted. "How do you feel about it now?"

"Still shocked," Alan grinned. "But the idea's growing on me. As much as I love racing, it was never as fulfilling as International Rescue. And trying to save the world? That's the ultimate!"

"And Thunderbird Three? How is she?"

"I called Brains before I called you. He's finished analysing her diagnostic readings and he thinks she's space ready."

"You will be flying up to Thunderbird Five soon?"

"As soon as we've unstopped her launch bay, which'll hopefully be in a week. John won't be heading back to the island until tomorrow, and he wouldn't be happy if we went up there without him. I think I'll try a test ignition of Three's engines tomorrow, just to confirm that she doesn't blow up on us." Alan laughed.

Lady Penelope could see that, even in the short space of their conversation, a change had come over her friend. He seemed brighter; vibrant; more alive. "I believe that you are looking forward to the flight."

"The more I think about it, the more I am. I feel like..." Alan thought for a moment... "I know this sounds silly to say about a spaceship, and I trust you won't repeat it to anyone, but I feel like we're reconnecting… as if we're falling in love all over again..."

-F-A-B-

"Hello, Tin-Tin," Alan's manager greeted her. "Are you looking for your old man?"

Tin-Tin had finished all her phone calls and had decided to meet her husband at the track. "I suppose so. Have you seen Alan?"

"I think he's in your trailer. I wanted to see him about something, so I'll walk over there with you."

The pair of them fell into step. "What did Mike think about becoming the principal driver?" Tin-Tin asked.

The manager chuckled. "I don't think the kid's come back down to earth yet. He practically did the first couple of laps of the track without the car."

"Do you think he's up to it?"

The manager thought for a moment. "Far be it for me to tell my boss's wife what I think of his decision, but I think Mike will do okay. He's got a few rough edges, but I've seen video of Alan's early races and he was the same. Now that someone's giving Mike some responsibility, I'm sure he'll come on in leaps and bounds."

They arrived at her home away from home and Tin-Tin opened the door. Just in time to hear Alan saying "...I feel like we're reconnecting… as if we're falling in love all over again…" She saw her husband jump when the door opened.

"Oh! Hi, Tin-Tin." Alan was trying to sound casual. "What are you doing here?"

"I wanted to say goodbye to the team before we left," Tin-Tin admitted. Her eyes fell on the attractive lady whose image smiled back at her from the videophone. "Hello, Lady Penelope."

"Hello, Tin-Tin dear. Alan and I have been having such an interesting conversation, but now I must go. I have things to do. I will talk to you later, Alan."

He favoured her with a warm smile. "I'll look forward to it, Penny."

"Goodbye, Tin-Tin."

"Goodbye, Lady Penelope."

"Bye, Penny. Catch you later." Alan switched off the videophone and turned to the manager. "Did you need me for something?"

The manager was almost smirking. "I wanted to talk to you about increasing Mike's rate of pay... If you're free."

"Uh, yeah. I'll be with you in a moment. Are you ready to go, Honey?" Alan asked Tin-Tin. "If you want to you can head back to Dad's and I'll meet you there."

"No. I don't mind waiting..." Tin-Tin paused. "What did Lady Penelope want?"

Alan hesitated. He didn't want to air his family's dirty laundry in front of the manager, and he definitely couldn't mention anything about International Rescue. "She, er, wanted to know what we've got planned for the next few months."

Tin-Tin said nothing. She'd known Alan practically all their lives and she knew when he was lying.

He was lying.

-I-R-

-F-A-B-

John Tracy looked at his watch. "Emma should be here soon."

Gordon grabbed his brother's wrist and stared at the expensive timepiece. "Is that the time?! I'd better get going or else I'll miss the appointment with the lawyer." He dropped John's arm and turned back to their father. "I'll come back and see you before we head off, Dad."

Jeff gave a solemn nod. "_I hope_ _Crawford is able to offer you some good advice."_

"So long as he gets this divorce out of the way quickly and painlessly I'll be happy... See you later, John."

"Bye, Gordon."

But Gordon didn't escape the house immediately. He opened the door to leave just as Emma Janes, her arms laden with books, bags, and files, was trying to push the doorbell. "Hi," he grinned. "You must be John's right-hand-woman." He extended his hand. "I'm Gordon."

"Uh, yes... Hello, Gordon..." Emma, thinking that he was being polite, tried to release her hand so that she could shake his. Several files cascaded to the ground.

Gordon chuckled. "We can leave the formalities till after you've dropped this stuff in a more suitable location." He swooped down on the grounded files, and then flicked a switch that opened an intercom between the front door and his father's office. "Get your butt out here, John. You've got a damsel who needs saving from her tyrant of a boss. He's treating her like a packhorse." He switched the intercom off before either of them heard his brother's irate response.

John came down the hall at a trot. "Sorry about that, Emma. I see you've met the family's tame idiot." He took Gordon's files, and then transferred some more from Emma's arms to his own. "I thought you had an appointment to go to, Gordon."

"I do. Good to finally meet you, Emma." Gordon extended his hand to Emma and this time she was able to shake it properly. "Don't let this guy drive you too hard."

"Goodbye, Gordon," John said.

"And don't worry about our old man. He growls like a dog, but underneath he's a pussycat."

"Goodbye, Gordon," John repeated and heard a sound behind them. "Emma, this is Kyrano: family friend and cook extraordinaire. Kyrano: This is my secretary extraordinaire, Emma."

Kyrano stepped out from behind the trolley he'd been pushing and bowed. "Welcome, Miss Emma." He took her remaining books and placed them on the trolley. Then he added John's pile to the load. "I will take these to the office. Mr Tracy has asked that you relax in the lounge before you meet. Would you care for coffee? Tea?" Emma, glad of some fortification before she faced the upheaval to her working life, accepted the coffee. "If you would care to follow me..." Pushing the trolley ahead of him, Kyrano led the way down to the lounge.

Gordon hadn't left. As he watched the secretary follow Kyrano down the hall, he eyed her up and down before nodding in approval. "Sack her, Johnny."

"Goodbye, Gordon." John pushed him outside and shut the door on him.

He joined Emma in the lounge. "Thank you for taking this on at such short notice. I really appreciate it."

Emma smiled at him. "That's all right. They say that a change is as good as rest, and hopefully all this upheaval will take my mind off Doomsday."

John accepted Kyrano's cup of coffee. "How much do you know about my dad?"

Emma bit her lip as she thought about how much she should reveal. "I probably know as much as anybody else. That he was an astronaut until his wife died..." She blushed as she said this. In keeping with employer/employee conventions they'd never discussed John's history and she didn't know his feelings on his mother's death. "Then he... started his civil engineering company and, as they say, the rest is history."

John nodded. That much could be found in any online encyclopaedia. "You know that he passed the business into my care when he had a stroke eight years ago?"

"Yes." There had been times over the years when Emma had fallen into conversation with long-term employees of the Tracy business and they'd given her a more in-depth insight into the company's founder and his family. They'd all spoken highly of the man who'd formed the company and each, without fail, had expressed regret at his sudden illness and subsequent incapacitation. They liked and admired the son who'd taken up the reins, but no one could replace Jeff Tracy.

John continued. "The main thing to remember is that his mind is as sharp as it ever was. Don't ever think that anyone could pull the wool over his eyes, because he'll soon prove you, and them, wrong. He hasn't played an active role in the business over the past seven years, but I've kept him in the loop and he's offered me advice when I've needed it."

"Okay."

"But..." Here John paused. He didn't like admitting his father's limitations, but if Emma was going to be working closely with Jeff she needed to be aware of what she was going to face. "The stroke knocked him badly. He used to be confident, outgoing, and a force to be reckoned with. He loved a challenge, whether he was exploring a new world, facing a hostile opponent across the board table, or," here John managed a grin, "trying to keep the five of us in line."

Emma sat and listened. This tallied with what she'd been told.

"But the stroke affected his motor skills. He's got limited mobility on his right side and even less on his left. I've had eight years of learning, but to someone who doesn't know him, he's quite hard to understand when he speaks..." John hesitated. "Make that very hard. He knows this and it's made him, um..." He tried to find the right words. "…reluctant to be seen in public."

"But, John, if he finds it so hard to speak, how will I understand him?"

John smiled. "I know one or two things about communications, so I've rigged up a couple of devices to help you both. You'll manage."

Emma sipped her coffee and thought about what he'd told her. She had to admit to a certain amount of trepidation at the thought of meeting Jeff Tracy, and John's admissions had done nothing to alleviate it. "John..." She tried to look at him, but found it easier to concentrate on her coffee. "Do you have to go?"

There was no hesitation in his reply. "Yes."

Emma managed to look up. "Why?"

Suddenly John Tracy, who usually seemed so calm and sure of himself (apart from last year when she'd 'inadvertently' found herself standing beneath the mistletoe at the firm's Christmas party) was uncomfortable. "Er... My brothers and I have made a pact."

"A pact?"

"We've agreed that we're going to spend the last four months together on Tracy Island."

"Doing what?"

"Erm..." Was he blushing? Why would he blush? "Have you finished your coffee? Dad doesn't like to be kept waiting."

Emma wanted to know more. "But won't you and your brothers want your father with you on the island?"

John seemed more sure of himself now. "He's wants to prove that he's still capable of running his business. And if he fails, and the world ends, it won't matter."

Emma felt herself bristle. "Is he forcing you out of the company?"

She was surprised when John laughed. "No. Definitely not. I had a hard time talking him into it." He took her cup from her, put it on the table, grasped her gently by the elbow and stood, taking her with him. "Time you met the owner of the company you've worked for for the last six years."

Emma hung back. "Are you sure we'll be able to work together?"

"You'll be fine. He knows his limitations and he knows how to work within them." John still had hold of her elbow and he rotated her about so that they were face-to-face. Then he took hold of her other arm so that she couldn't turn away. It was the closest to an intimate touch that they'd experienced, (apart from last Christmas) and Emma wondered what he had in mind.

"I trust you, Emma," John admitted. "I wouldn't ask you to do this if I didn't believe that you and Dad could work together... Or if I thought you'd hurt him in any way."

Horrified at the idea, Emma stared at him. "I wouldn't!"

"I know. That's why I'm comfortable leaving him in your hands." John sighed, and for a moment the strong, independent man was replaced by a lost little boy. "He's my hero. I think he would be my hero even if he weren't my father."

Emma blinked in surprise. This comment seemed totally unrelated to their conversation. But as she looked into John's eyes she could see the love and respect that he held for Jeff Tracy.

"Look after him, Emma."

Charged with this request, Emma could do nothing but nod. "I will."

John smiled. "Thanks." He gestured towards the door with his head. "Come on."

Despite all that she'd just been told, Emma's mental image of Jeff Tracy was that of a robust, handsome man. There were a number of his portraits scattered throughout the headquarters of Tracy Industries and its various branches, and it was almost as if that picture was seared into her brain. She had once suggested that at least some of those portraits should be replaced with photos of John, but he'd negated the suggestion; reminding her that it was still his father's business, and that with Jeff's picture on the wall, he felt that he was forever being watched to stop him from doing anything stupid.

So it was with this image of a man fit and full of vitality firmly fixed in her mind that Emma stepped into Jeff Tracy's office.

"Emma," John hadn't let go of her elbow and he guided her forward, "I would like to you meet my father. Dad; this is Emma."

Jeff struggled to his feet and extended his stronger right hand. "'m blizd d' mid y', 'ma."

Emma felt her smile freeze on her face. This wasn't wasn't the man who'd helped colonise the Moon, almost single-handedly raised five sons, and created one of the most successful businesses on the planet. This was was a grey-haired old man, barely unable to stand unaided, with one hand flopping by his side and the other, looking as fragile as a butterfly's wing, outstretched towards her. She steeled herself and accepted his hand. "Good afternoon, Mr Tracy. It's nice to finally meet you." She was surprised to discover an unexpected warmth and strength in his grip.

"Zi' dow'."

"Here," John brought up a chair and indicated that Emma should sit in it.

Her smile now warm and genuine, Emma thanked him as she sat down.

Trying not to show how relieved he was to get off his feet, Jeff did the same. "W'r d' y' wa' d' zdr, Go?"

"I suppose we'd better start by introducing Emma to the communication interface."

Jeff looked surprised that he'd forgotten the device. Around his right index finger like a ring was an object which jutted out past his knuckle. Curling his fingers into a fist and using the flattened end, he typed into a keyboard. An electronic voice announced: **""I type and this talks.""** He screwed up his face. _"Couldn't you have come up with something that sounded less like a machine?"_

"I tried, remember? You said it made you sound like that television star you couldn't stand."

"_Better than sounding like a robot."_

"I haven't had time to work on improvements; your business has kept me too busy. Once we're through the next four months I'll see what I can do about improving the system. Maybe I'll get some old recordings of you and synthesise your voice."

"_That would be an improvement."_

"But I'll only be able to do it if you two make a success of this and free me up to have the time to work on it."

"_Then Emma and I'll have to make this a success."_

Emma looked between the two men, only partially understanding one side of the conversation. John noticed her bemused expression. "Start typing, Dad. We can't leave Emma out in the cold, it's not very gentlemanly."

"Zwe, 'ma." Jeff typed. **""Sorry, Emma,""** the machine enunciated.

John picked up the first file. "Now... This is the Murchison contract..."

-I-R-

-F-A-B-

The flight back to Tracy Island was quiet. Both Scott and Virgil were so wrapped up in their individual thoughts that neither of them realised that the other was equally subdued.

It wasn't until they'd touched down on the Pacific Island and Scott had taxied the aeroplane into the hangar that Virgil spoke. "I'm sorry I wasn't there for you when you split up with Farrah."

"Huh?" Scott seemed surprised by the admission. "Oh... Don't worry about it. I knew you were busy so I didn't want to worry you. Come on, we'd better unload all this stuff." He disappeared into the back of the aeroplane.

Any opportunity for further discussion on the subject vanished as Alan and Gordon joined them to help unload the selection of raw materials that Virgil had ordered earlier that day. Finally the aeroplane was empty and bags of fastenings weighed down a workbench.

Virgil picked a couple up. "I'll make a start putting these into some sort of order so we won't waste any time tomorrow. Let me know when it's dinner time."

"It won't be long," Alan told him cheerfully. "Tin-Tin's cooking."

Virgil had only been at his task for ten minutes when he received a call over the intercom. "Dinner's ready, Virgil," Scott told him.

"I've nearly finished sorting these out," Virgil replied. "I'll be up when I've finished."

"Okay."

Virgil continued sorting, methodically pouring each bag into a container and labelling it.

Scott hailed him again. "Your dinner's getting cold."

"I won't be long. I'm nearly finished."

"Don't be too long."

Virgil finished his self appointed task and headed out of the storeroom, intending to head up to the villa.

Thunderbird Two, still nestled on the back of the four elevator cars, seemed to reproach him for not doing more to help her. Her three-part tubular legs lay forlornly where they'd fallen onto the hangar floor and he decided that it wouldn't hurt to discover which sections were reusable and which would need replacing. Grabbing a laser level Virgil approached the first leg...

"Virgil..." it was Tin-Tin on the other end of his wristwatch telecom. "We've finished the main course and we're starting on dessert. Are you coming up?"

"Oh, yeah." Virgil had forgotten about his evening meal. "I'll be right up."

"I'll put your dinner in to heat up again."

"Thanks, Honey." Virgil picked up a marker pen and inspected it. He was surprised to discover that it was still usable after all this time. He marked the topmost section of the leg with a large cross. Then he lined up the middle section with the laser. This one looked okay, so he inscribed it with a tick. He only had the narrowest section to go in this leg, so he started inspecting it as he had the other two. It wasn't bad, although there was a slight defect where the foot had twisted millimetres off the level. He sat back on his heels and regarded the section, before marking it with a question mark. It would be better if it was replaced, but in the meantime it would be a low priority...

He got to his feet and moved towards leg number two.

"Virgil!"

Virgil started when he heard his name. He turned to face Tin-Tin. "Why are you down here?"

"We've all finished." Tin-Tin held out a plate filled with slightly overcooked food. "So I've brought down your dinner."

"I'm not hungry."

"You are going to eat!" she told him. "You've got a lot ahead of you and you've got to keep your strength up." She forced the plate into his left hand and, keeping a firm grip on his arm, dragged him back so he could lean up against a workbench. "Now eat!"

"I can't eat if you've got hold of my arm!" Virgil protested.

"Even if you weren't ambidextrous you'd be able to use your other hand to hold your fork," she retorted. "And I'm not letting go until you've eaten everything on that plate!"

Virgil gave in and started eating.

After she was sure that he'd had a couple of mouthfuls, Tin-Tin adjusted her grip so that she still had hold of his left arm, but that it was more of an embrace. It was a gesture such as a sister might make towards her brother, and neither of them thought of it any other way. "You seem sad, Virgil... What's wrong?"

He speared at a vegetable. "Nothin'."

"Are you disappointed that you're going to miss seeing your exhibition?"

"No," he admitted. "I'm fed up with that life."

Tin-Tin watched him as he ate some more. "Are you upset over Thunderbird Two?"

He didn't stop eating. "We can fix her."

"Is it because you've split up with Kasey?"

Virgil shook his head and consumed a piece of chicken.

Tin-Tin had lived with the Tracy family long enough to know when something was amiss, and she had a fair idea what was troubling him. She sighed and laid her head on his shoulder as she watched the fork travel up and down. "Is it because of Scott?"

Virgil pulled himself free and put the plate on the workbench. "I'd better get back to work."

Tin-Tin watched as he headed back over to leg two...

-I-R-

-F-A-B-

Emma was trying. Honestly she was, but even though Jeff was typing out much of what he said, or else John was interpreting for her, she was still feeling lost. She had to escape and she wanted to explain to John why without hurting Jeff's feelings. "Um... John..."

He smiled at her. "Yes?"

"Where is the..."

"Oh!" He looked horrified when he realised that he'd neglected to point out one of the most basic amenities. "Sorry. Down the corridor and on your right."

"Uh..." She tugged at his sleeve. "This is a big house. Couldn't you show me?"

"Sure thing. Back soon, Dad."

"'gi."

Emma escaped into the hallway. "John, I'm sorry, but I can't do this!"

"Sure you can. You know all the contracts..."

"It's not that. It's your father. I'm sure he's a lovely man, but I haven't understood a word he's said all afternoon!"

John frowned. "Not even with the artificial voice?"

"It helps, but his typing is so slow. Something that you and I could cover in ten minutes is taking an hour! Do you have to leave tomorrow evening? Can't you stay for a bit longer? At least until I can understand some of what he's saying?"

John felt a pang of guilt. "I'm sorry, Emma, but I've got to leave tomorrow. We've got a lot to do."

"On a tropical island? What are you going to be doing? Counting coconuts?!" Emma realised that she was beginning to sound slightly hysterical and she checked herself. "I'm sorry. Forget I just said that."

"That's okay..." John took a deep breath. "I'm sorry, but I can't change my plans... Will you at least try to work with him for a week? If you still think it's going to be totally hopeless then I'll try and think of something else."

Emma nodded. It was a compromise. "I'll try for a week. I am sorry, John. I want to help."

"I know... Shall we go back in?"

"I will in a moment. Where did you say the...?"

John pointed. "Through that door there."

"Thanks."

John returned to the office, a frown on his face.

"_What's wrong?"_

John sighed. His father could be too perceptive sometimes. "She's concerned that she can't understand you."

Jeff looked grim. _"I wish there was something I could do about that."_

"She'd be fine if she had the time to work with you without any pressure, but we haven't got that time. I've managed to convince her to hang in there for a week."

Jeff regarded his second eldest son. He'd seen the way he'd interacted with the young woman. _"You like her, don't you?"_

"Yes. She's like my right hand."

"_I don't mean professionally. I mean are you two in a relationship?"_

"NO!" John exclaimed. "No way! That would be totally unprofessional."

"_But you're attracted to her?"_

"Well..." John gave a sheepish grin. He couldn't keep anything from his dad. "Yeah, I am. But I've made a point of not letting her know that. I can't. Not while I'm her boss."

"_You're a good man, John. Sometimes too good for your own good."_

"And if I had started a relationship with her, you would be telling me off for behaving unprofessionally."

"_Quite probably..."_ The door opened and Emma entered the room. "'lo, 'ma."

Emma gave him an uncertain smile. She'd used it a lot in the course of the afternoon. "Sorry about that."

"We're all only human," John reminded her. "And that includes me. Back in a minute."

Emma and Jeff were left alone. Jeff smiled his lopsided smile at the young woman. **""Sorry this is so hard on you**_,""_ he said as he typed.

Emma listened to the electronic words and tried to relate them to the sounds he'd just made. "Mr Tracy, please forgive me if this is impertinent, but can we try something else? What if I were to sit next to you so I can watch you type and listen to you speak at the same time? That way I'll hopefully learn to relate what you're saying to the words I'm hearing."

Jeff nodded. He liked people to be straightforward and John's secretary certainly qualified. He nodded and Emma pulled her chair around so that she was sitting next to him.

Jeff curled up his fingers. "Mi n'm s Gf," he said as he typed **""My name is Jeff.""**

Despite all her concerns, Emma suddenly felt a burst of affection towards him. Here was this man who'd been to the moon and done all sorts of other breathtaking things, trying to teach her how to understand what he was saying. Overcome with a sense of empathy, she placed her hand on his arm and smiled at him.

Jeff smiled in return. _"I can see why John's so attracted to you."_

Emma smiled that uncertain smile.

"Hello, hello..." They looked towards the door. "I'm only gone two minutes," John teased, "and you've already got my secretary on your knee."

**""We're trying another way of communication,""** Jeff told him as he typed.

"Good. Anything that works..." John winked at Emma. "Within reason... Now where were we?"

**""Charitable causes expenditure.""**

"Okay," John began. "You know that my first year in charge I had to cut Tracy Industries charitable spending back to ten percent of what your expenditure had been." He seemed apologetic. "I hated doing it because it hurt a lot of worthy causes, but I had to ensure that the company survived. But, as you know, each year that the company's gotten stronger, I've increased that spending accordingly. It's almost back to the level it was eight years ago."

**""Good.""**

"The problem is that I'm concerned that when I take my leave of absence Tracy Industries income will drop back to the level it was seven years ago."

Jeff nodded. **""I'll keep that in mind. You've done well these last eight years, John. I don't want to upset the applecart. Are there any priorities you'd recommend?""**

Emma looked between the two Tracys as they became absorbed in their discussion. They were as serious about donations and sponsorship as they had been for all the other aspects of the business. Clearly giving away their hard earned money was as important to them as earning it had been, and her heart went out to both men... One who was trying to battle his frail body so he could recapture the world he'd once controlled. And the other...

Emma knew that she was going to miss John Tracy.

_To be continued..._


	6. Chapter 6 - Beginning Again

**Chapter Six: Beginning Again**

It was the day after John had returned home to Tracy Island. Actually "day" was a bit of a misnomer as the first beams of the sun had barely had time to caress the waters of the Pacific Ocean before the silence was broken.

"You're dedicated." Gordon sat on the edge of the pool. "What's with you guys? You're already swimming. Virgil's already doing weights in the gym. You're going to take all the fun out of being a slave driver."

John stopped swimming and clung to the side of the pool. "I've got - a long way - to go - to get fit," he gasped, "and not much…" He gulped; trying to get more air into his oxygen-deprived lungs, "…time to do it in."

Brains had given them all complete physicals over the last few days and had discovered few surprises. Gordon was the only one of the Tracy brothers who'd managed to maintain the level of fitness that he'd enjoyed when he'd last worked for International Rescue. Scott and Alan had both kept fit for the benefit of their respective jobs, but were below their peak. Virgil, as he'd said, had lost a lot of his upper body strength, hence his early morning workout.

But it was John who'd got the biggest fright. Tracy Industries, as part of the contract with all employees, ensured that every person who worked for the organisation was given a yearly check-up by a doctor. Everyone except for the firm's boss; who, as much by good management as by luck, had succeeded the last few years in being out of town each time it had been his turn. Even Emma hadn't persuaded him to take better care of himself. It had taken the possible end of the world to do that, and John had been shocked to see how much he'd deteriorated.

Gordon looked at his brother's heaving shoulders. "How many laps have you done?"

John shrugged. "I don't know. I've lost count. Five? Six?"

Gordon sat on the edge of the pool and patted the tiles beside him. "Come up here for a minute."

With a few grunts and groans as he levered his weight out of the pool, John obeyed. "Okay, I'm here. What do you want to talk about?"

"I want you to take it easy. I don't want you rushing things."

John frowned. "Why? You told me that I needed to start working out as soon as possible."

"Yes, I did. And I gave you a set routine to follow. How many laps did I ask you to do?"

"Four... But Gordon...!"

"But nothing! I've seen your blood test results and you're well on the way to doing something catastrophic!"

John studied his hands. "I know."

"I'm not easing you into this because I'm being soft on you, John. I'm doing this because I got a hang of a fright when Dad had his stroke and I don't want to see that happen to you!"

John looked up. Gordon was sounding anxious, and John realised that his poor condition had repercussions beyond his own body. "I'm sorry I didn't listen to you."

Gordon took a deep breath to get his anxiety under control. "So you're not as fit as the rest of us. So what? You're still going to be a lot more use to International Rescue upright, instead of confined to bed or worse."

"I hope so."

"I know so! Besides, we've got three months before you head off to Thunderbird Five. That's plenty of time to get you into a condition where you won't give the rest of us heart failure if you attempt to run more than two steps."

John nodded. "It's just frustrating that I can't pull my weight."

"So we'll get rid of that excess weight you're carrying and then you'll find it easier to pull..." Gordon managed one of his famous impish grins. "You can practise on Emma."

John chuckled, relieved that his brother was joking again. Then he remembered his promise to Scott from four days ago. "How about you, Gordon? Have you heard any more about the divorce?"

He'd half expected his younger brother to jump down his throat, but instead Gordon shook his head. "Apparently the courts are strained to breaking point. Tons of people have decided that if the world's going to end, they want to die free from marital ties."

"You'd think that since 'the world's going to end' that they'd work out a way to fast-track the system."

"I would have thought so too. But apparently a lot of the courts' staff have decided that they've better things to do in their final days than listen to other people's woes, so they've quit. The judicial systems are mired in serious crimes, and petty things like divorce are on the backburner. My lawyer's saying that any new divorce requests aren't going to be finalised until well into the new year. So I'm just going to stand back, let things proceed at their own pace, and try to keep well clear of Marina."

"I admire the way you're keeping so calm over all this."

"I'm not really," Gordon admitted, rotating his shoulders. "I find it hard to sleep for thinking about it." He slipped into the water before his brother could comment. "Think about what I said, John."

John snapped off a salute. "Yes, Sir!"

Gordon chuckled. "You'd get drummed out of WASP for a salute like that."

"I'd be out of WASP a long time before we got to that stage." John smiled down at his brother. "Don't worry. From now on I'll follow your orders to the letter."

"Good." Gordon set off on the first of many laps of the pool...

-I-R-

-F-A-B-

_Thursday 13__th__ July 2079_

Physicals out of the way, final inspections of the equipment completed, and maintenance plans formed, everyone settled into a routine of exercise and equipment rehabilitation.

Day four rolled around and, deep in the heart of Thunderbird Three, Scott checked his watch. In the States it was still the 12th, and taking into account their respective time differences, Stewie should have finished sitting his private pilot's certificate by now. Scott had sent his Little Brother emails over the past week, but had had no response. Clearly Stewie had taken his wish to disassociate the pair of them to heart and Scott hoped that the bombshell that he'd dropped less than a week ago hadn't caused his young friend to abandon his aeronautical plans.

He looked at his watch again. He'd been working for hours and a break wouldn't hurt. He could take the time to make a phone call...

But he could only hope that Stewie would take the time to talk to him.

He jogged up to the house and poured himself a cup of coffee from the coffee machine. It wasn't as good as one of Kyrano's freshly made specials, but it did when you didn't have much time to savour a steaming hot brew. Taking a sip, he hurried down the hall to his room where he would be assured of some privacy. He didn't want the humiliation of being told to get lost by a 17-year-old made public.

As he approached the sleeping quarters he was surprised to hear a videophone ringing. He was even more intrigued to discover that it was the phone in his room. Intrigue turned to outright astonishment when he realised that the caller was Stewie.

Scott hesitated a moment before answering. How should he handle this? Bright and cheerful? Or cautious and enquiring? He made his choice: "Happy birthday, Stuart."

Stewie didn't look like a 17-year-old who'd passed a much anticipated test. He didn't even look like someone who was enjoying that one day of the year that was special to him and him alone. Instead he looked subdued and self-conscious. "Hi, Scott."

"Er..." Scott didn't want to broach what had the potential to be a delicate subject. "How's your day been?"

"Good."

"How's your grandma?"

"She's fine."

"Spent some time with your friends today?"

"No."

"No? Are you going to have a party later?" No reason why Stewie couldn't still have a birthday party, even if it wasn't going to be a celebration at the same time.

Stewie nodded. "You haven't asked me if I got my certificate."

"Well... After the last time we met, I wasn't sure if you were still going to sit it."

A slow smile blossomed on Stewie's face. "I passed."

"You did what!" Scott felt as if the weight that had been on his shoulders had been replaced by a helium balloon. "Yes!" He punched the air. "I knew you could do it!"

"Yeah, well, I did it with your help," Stewie admitted.

"You did all the hard work," Scott corrected. "I merely guided you in the right direction. Oh, man! This is great! I haven't been this happy since... since... Since you flew solo!" He flopped back in his seat; a huge beaming smile on his face. "This is great, Stewie," he repeated.

Stewie turned as if he'd heard a sound. "Gran's calling, so I'd better go. We're going out to celebrate and I thought I'd better let you know I passed before we left."

"Where are you having your party?"

"We're not. Gran and I are going out to dinner. I'm saving the party until after Doomsday when you'll be able to join us. You helped me, Scott. If it wasn't for you we wouldn't be celebrating and I want you to be here to enjoy the celebration with me."

Scott, much to his surprise, felt a lump form in his throat at the young man's statement. "You can count on it... And, Doomsday or no Doomsday, I won't miss it this time. I'll make sure of that!"

Stewie turned again. "She's still yelling," he said wryly, "so I'd better go. Keep in touch, Big Bro."

"Yeah. You too, Little Bro."

Stewie reached out as if he was going to disconnect the phone connection, but he stopped before his finger hit the button. "I'm sorry about the way I behaved the other day."

"And I'm sorry I had to break my promise. I really wish I'd been there today," Scott admitted. "But thanks for calling. The mark of a real man is one who is brave enough to admit his mistakes..." he screwed up his face, "and big enough to forgive another's. I don't think that you need me as a Big Brother anymore..." He looked at the teenager hopefully. "But maybe I could stay on as your friend?"

"You betcha!" Stewie grinned.

"Stuart!" An exasperated grandmother opened the door and looked into the teenager's room. "Are you coming or not?! Oh! Hello, Scott!"

"Hi, Mrs K."

"I'm coming, Gran. I just called Scott to tell him the good news."

His grandmother looked relieved. "I'm sorry I have to rush him, Scott, but we've got an appointment."

"So I hear... Go on, Stewie..." Scott's big grin got even bigger. "It's never a good idea to keep a lady waiting."

"Guess I'd better." Stewie reached out for the disconnect button again. "Oh, yeah. Will you say thanks to Virgil for me?"

"Virgil? Yes, course I will."

"Thanks. Bye." And _call ended_ appeared on the videophone's screen.

Scott didn't immediately vacate his seat. He took a moment to reflect on what he'd just been told. His pride in the young man was welling up inside him to the point that it was overflowing; and he had to wipe his eyes on his sleeve to clear his vision.

Then he got to his feet. He had work to do.

On the way back to the kitchen to get rid of his coffee cup he bumped into Virgil. "Guess what!"

"What?" Virgil asked, wondering why his brother looked like the proverbial cat that had got the cream.

"Stewie passed his certificate!" Still overcome with happiness, pride, and various other emotions, Scott wrapped Virgil up in a brief but warm bear hug, spilling coffee on the carpet. "And he rang _me_ to tell me!"

"That's great!"

"Yeah, isn't it! I'm going to tell the others."

Scott had nearly reached the door to get rid of his cup when he remembered something else. "Oh, yeah, Virgil!"

Virgil turned back. "Yes?"

"I nearly forgot. Stewie said to tell you thanks." And Scott was gone.

Virgil smiled as the door closed behind his exuberant big brother. "You're welcome."

-I-R-

-F-A-B-

That evening John sat at his computer. He had no qualms about leaving Tracy Industries in his father's capable hands, but he'd been in charge for long enough that he felt a kind of parental responsibility towards it. He checked all the various economic indicators that measured the company's health, and was pleasantly surprised to find that it was doing well.

Then he switched over to another programme. It was a news feed that he'd programmed to search out the names of his brothers. Sometimes it had seemed that this was the only way he'd been able to keep up with what they were doing.

Scott, Gordon, Alan and himself were all mentioned in a minor article about the way that Jeff Tracy's sons had taken themselves back to their father's island to relive the life of debauchery they'd enjoyed seven years earlier. John chuckled, he could imagine several ways of describing their current lifestyles, but debauched wasn't one of them.

There was a further note in one of the more salacious tabloids about how the former Olympic gold medallist had walked out on his wife and demanded a divorce.

Jeff Tracy's middle son, as far as the mass media was concerned, had disappeared off the face of the Earth.

Then John found an article that did mention Virgil; or at least Virgil's alter ego. As he read it, John lost much of his good humour.

He fingered his old International Rescue watch. "Scott… Could you come to my room for a moment?"

It took five minutes for the eldest Tracy to make an appearance. "What do you want, John?"

"Read this." John pushed himself away from the computer screen.

Scott took the seat. As he read a frown formed on his face, the creases growing deeper the further he dove into the article. "This can't be him. Can it?"

"This guy clearly thought it was."

"But none of this makes sense."

"That's why I called you. When could it have happened?"

"I don't know. He was going there after we parted company and I didn't notice anything strange about his behaviour before or afterw…" Scott saw a figure pass down in the hallway. "Virgil!"

Virgil peered through the door. "Yes?"

Scott beckoned. "Come here a minute."

Virgil did as he was told. "What's up?"

"John found this article in the news," Scott told him. "We were wondering if any of it was true."

Virgil claimed the seat and read the text, providing a commentary about various passages for the sake of his brothers. "_Artist destroys own exhibition_…_Prominent manager in the art world_… Ha! If it weren't for me he wouldn't be known outside his own street… _'Gustav had called me and said he was heading out of town for a while.'_ Well, that's true…_ 'I was hard at work and looked up…'_ Hard at work! He was reading a magazine that if Grandma had caught any of us reading we wouldn't have been able to sit down for a week..! _'I got a huge surprise to realise that he was standing there…'_ I'll bet he did… _'He looked half-crazed…'_ I must have been to have him as a manager. _'Then he raced through the gallery and tore down his paintings. He's destroyed priceless artworks…'_ What a load of…"

"So you didn't tear them down?" Scott asked.

"Yes, I did."

"You did!?"

"There're all back at my apartment. But there's no way they'd qualify as 'priceless artworks'. I'm hardly Van Gogh or Picasso." Seemingly oblivious to the consternation he was causing in his two elder brothers, Virgil turned back to the screen. "_'I'm going to be thousands of dollars out of pocket…'_ That liar! The amount that I paid to get out of the contract should keep him swimming in that greasy hair cream of his until well into next century!"

"Virgil," Scott interrupted. "Why did you destroy your paintings?"

Virgil became defensive. "I didn't _destroy them._ I just removed them from the gallery with less care than usual. Why shouldn't I? They are mine!"

"But why?"

"Because I'm sick of the sight of them!"

"Virgil…" Scott repeated shaking his head in disbelief, "assuming we're successful, by the time we've finished here your exhibition would be over."

"And then someone would take them down and store them away any old how," Virgil told him. Seemingly unaware of the irony of his statement he turned back to the screen and continued reading.

Totally bemused, Scott looked at John…

...Who decided that it was time he joined in the discussion. "But, Virgil, excuse me if I seem stupid, but I still don't understand why you've canned your exhibition. You've been painting those pictures for months, if not years. Plus you've been looking forward to that exhibition for ages. Every time I've spoken to you that's practically all you've talked about!"

Virgil glared at him. "Things change and people change, all right! They were important to me then, but I've got more important things to worry about now. Besides; what does it matter what I do with them? If the world ends they won't mean anything anyway. They're certainly no great loss to humanity. Now, will you both be quiet and let me finish reading?"

Just as bemused as Scott, John sagged against his dresser and watched as his younger brother finished reading the article.

"_Gustav's manager finished this interview with a final comment. 'I've seen it all before and I could see it coming this time. A promising artist falls in with the wrong crowd and loses his talent, his mind, and his life to drugs…_" Virgil stared at the screen and reread the passage."Drugs? He thought I was on drugs? How could he think that!? Where's he been?"

"You said he wasn't the brightest star in the sky," John offered.

His words did nothing to calm an incensed Virgil. "But he had the nerve to say that I was on drugs!? How dare he?! I'll sue him for libel! I'll make him sorry he ever suggested that." Furious, he leapt to his feet. "I'll take back every penny I gave him and more!"

The way he was getting wound up had John worried that the furnishings in his room were in imminent danger. "Virg, calm down! He doesn't know what he's talking about."

"I say he doesn't," Virgil snarled. "He says he knows me, but he doesn't know me at all! He doesn't know the real me!" He spun around and found two brothers staring at him. "Don't look at me like that!" He stormed out of the room.

Scott and John glanced at each other, then John let out a pent up breath. "That was… erm… interesting…" He frowned. "He really took offence to that drugs bit, didn't he?"

Scott decided that John deserved an explanation. "That's why he and Kasey broke up. Narcotics were more important to her than Virgil was."

"Poor Virgil…" John looked reflectively after his departed brother. "It's odd that his manager thought that he was on something."

"Yes," Scott agreed. "It was."

"There's no way there could be anything in it could there..." John caught himself. "No. Forget I said that. Virgil wouldn't."

"But he's been living in a totally different world to what we know," Scott reminded him.

"Yeah, but he's still got his feet on the ground."

"Who knows what influences he's been exposed to? There's Kasey for a start."

"Scott, I still think the idea's unthinkable."

"But you thought it."

"And I wish I hadn't. Forget I said anything. I'm tired and I'm not thinking straight." John yawned and stretched. "I'm going to bed. Shut the door on your way out, would you?"

But when Scott had left John worried that maybe he'd planted a seed that should never have been watered...

-I-R-

-F-A-B-

"We've been working on Thunderbird Three for six days straight and she's ready for liftoff," Alan noted. "When are we heading up to Thunderbird Five?"

Scott checked a tablet PC. "Let's see... You and I gave blood on Monday. John did it this morning..."

"He managed to get his iron levels up then?" Gordon asked as he reached for the bread for his sandwich.

"High enough that Brains felt safe in draining a pint out of him," Scott remarked. "We'll give him a full day to recover and then I think we'll be able to leave on Sunday."

"Where is he anyway?" Virgil cut through his sandwich. "He's missing lunch." He picked up his plate and mug and went to stand.

"You're a fine one to talk about missing lunch," Tin-Tin scolded. "Thunderbird Two's seen more of you than we have. Now sit down and eat!" She grabbed Virgil by the shoulder and pushed him back into his seat. "You'll only give yourself indigestion!"

Virgil looked at her in surprise. "Yes, Ma'am!"

Tin-Tin reached across the table and pulled the tablet out of Scott's hands. "And you can leave that alone for five minutes!"

"Tin-Tin!" Scott protested.

"Your grandmother wouldn't let you read at the table and neither will I!" Tin-Tin put the tablet under her chair out of reach. "And where is Brains? I told him lunch was ready."

"It probably went in one ear and out the other," Alan suggested. "You'd better make him something and take it to him when you head back."

"What am I? Brains' slave?!"

"No, of course not!" Alan held his hands up in surrender. "It's just that you're the only one heading in his direction after lunch."

"And you're the only one he'll listen to," Gordon added. There was a sound by the door. "Ah, here's one of those MIA."

"John?" Scott took in his brother's paler than usual complexion. "Are you feeling all right?"

John looked terrible as he leant on the back of Tin-Tin's chair. "I don't want to worry anyone," he began. "But…" His hand went to his chest and he swallowed. "I'm not feeling too gooo..." What little colour that was left in his face drained away and, without even hearing Scott's command of "catch him!" he hit the ground faster than a marionette whose strings had been cut.

"Get him into the recovery position," Scott ordered. "Virgil! Go get Brains and bring back a stretcher."

"Right!" Virgil took off at a run.

Gordon gently rolled his brother over so he was on his side and his airway was clear. "John… Johnny… Come on, man, wake up… Please!"

Alan crouched down. "Let him get some air, Gordon. He'll be all right..." He realised that John was already showing signs of coming around. "See. I told you."

But Gordon was back down next to his brother. "Take it easy, Johnny," he begged. "Don't move. We'll look after you."

John groaned.

"That's it, John. Wake up..."

"Get out of the way, Gordon," Scott demanded. "Here's Brains."

"Come on..." Tin-Tin eased a worried Gordon away. "Let Brains look after him."

"But this is my fault..."

Brains crouched next to the downed Tracy brother. "C-Can you hear me, John?"

"Yeah..." John tried to open his eyes and then shut them tightly. "Think 'm goin' be sick."

Alan found him a suitable receptacle.

"Are you feeling any pain?" Brains asked.

"No... Jus' dizzy."

"Th-That's good."

John tried to open his eyes again. "Good?" he gulped as he clamped them shut again.

"Relax. We'll take you to the, er, infirmary," Brains told him and looked to Scott.

Who took the hint that he was expected to take control of the situation. "Put the stretcher against his back, Virgil. Do you think you'll be okay lying on your back, John?"

John, his eyes still glued shut, nodded, and breathed deeply as they rolled him onto the stretcher.

Scott took hold of the handles by the patient's head and indicated that Virgil should take those at their brother's feet. "Just relax, John; Virgil and I have got you, and if you think you are going to be sick, Alan's got a bowl. Okay?"

John put his arm over his eyes to block out the light that was forcing its way through his eyelids. "Yeah..."

It didn't take much effort to carry him through the house and into one of the infirmary's beds, after which the Tracys were shooed back out into the hall.

Gordon, wringing his hands together, started pacing up and down in front of the door. "This is my fault."

"It's not your fault, Gordon," Virgil told him.

"I worked him too hard. I pushed him further than I should have." Gordon got to the end of the hall, turned, and started trekking back. "This is my fault."

"I thought you were going too easy on him," Scott noted. "I don't think it's your fault, Gordon."

"But if I hadn't pushed him..."

"You didn't push him," Alan interrupted. "John pushed himself because he didn't want to hold us back. This isn't your fault, Gordon."

"I saw his test results. He wasn't in good shape." Gordon began the return trip. "I shouldn't have worked him so hard..."

Scott intercepted his distressed brother's pacing. He placed both hands on Gordon's shoulders and looked him in the eye. "This - is - not - your - fault!" he enunciated. "Now relax. John only fainted. He gave blood this morning and it was too much too soon."

Gordon looked hopeful. "Do you think so?"

"I'm sure that's all it is. Brains will give him something to make him feel better and before you know it he'll be up and pushing himself too hard again. Now relax! You're making us more nervous than John's collapse did!"

"I am?"

"Yes," Virgil confirmed. "You are."

"Sorry." Gordon managed a weak smile. "I'm sure you're right, Scott."

"You know darn well I am! Now, are you going to stop beating yourself up over this?"

Gordon nodded. "Okay."

"Good." Scott released his grip and stepped back.

Gordon managed to stand still for a couple of minutes before he started pacing again. But since he'd stopped berating himself, no one passed comment.

At last the door to the infirmary opened and Brains stepped out. "He's fine," he said. "Just a mild case of iron deficiency coupled with low blood press..." He was shoved out of the way before he had the chance to finish his sentence.

Gordon raced over to his brother's bedside. "Are you all right, John?"

Still looking pale, but otherwise bright and alert, John was propped up in the bed. "This is embarrassing," he grumbled. "We've all got work to do and here I am swooning like the heroine in a romantic novel. Why can't I get up?"

"Because Brains says you need the rest," Virgil reminded him.

"I'm all right."

"Sure you are," Alan scoffed.

"Tin-Tin," John begged. "Tell Brains I'm okay."

She folded her arms and glared at him. "I most certainly will not!"

John decided to have one more attempt at appealing to his doctor. "Can't I get up, Brains?"

But Brains wasn't given the chance repeat his prescription. "No you can't," Scott snapped. "Now lie back and relax like you've been told to do."

"But I'm wasting time lying here!"

"And you make us waste time arguing with you," Scott countered. "You're not getting out of that bed until Brains gives you the all clear!"

"I'm sorry, John," Gordon apologised.

John ignored him. "If you're all going to tie me to this bed, then get me something constructive to do!"

"Like what?" Alan asked.

"Get the communications modules out of the Thunderbirds and I'll check them over."

Scott rolled his eyes in exasperation, but he had to concede that it wasn't a stupid idea. "Any issues with that, Brains?"

"I c-can't see any problems," Brains admitted. "As l-long as you sleep when you get tired," he warned his patient.

"Deal! Now stop wasting time, you guys; and go and get them for me!"

"Come on, Fellas," Alan sighed. "The sooner he gets his toys the sooner we'll all be able to get back to work."

"Bring me electronics toolkit number 12, Virgil," John ordered.

"Right."

Gordon placed his hand on his brother's arm to get his attention. "I'm sorry, John."

"Sorry?" John frowned at him in confusion. "What for?"

"I pushed you too hard, too soon."

"Huh? No, you didn't."

"Are you sure?"

"I fainted because my body is a traitor to the cause," John explained. "It didn't like having a pint of blood drained out of it this morning. I didn't flake out because of you."

"We tried to tell him," Virgil explained. "But he wouldn't listen."

"This wasn't your fault, Gordon." John gave his brother a reassuring pat on the hand. "And I'm fine. Don't worry about me. When I'm finally released from this prison I'm going right back on that schedule you set me."

_To be continued..._


	7. Chapter 7 - The Grind

**Chapter Seven: The Grind**

"T minus ten and counting."

"Affirmative, Tin-Tin," Alan confirmed. "All systems are go for launch in ten minutes."

Even though he'd just done it, Alan ran his eyes over Thunderbird Three's control panel to check all was well. It was an instinctive gesture, born out of many years of flying the spaceship to Thunderbird Five. This time however the launch wasn't a hurried affair. It was the first time that Thunderbird Three was going to leave Earth's gravity in seven years and no one was prepared to rush it.

"She's looking good." Alan grinned at his wife's image on the monitor connected to launch control in the lounge. "Nearly as good as you, Honey."

"Sweet talker," Tin-Tin chided with affection. "Just remember that you're married to me, not Thunderbird Three."

Assured that no one else was listening, Alan leered at her. "Say... Tin-Tin... When we get back from Thunderbird Five, why don't you and I have a celebratory reunion party...? Just the two of us... You could wear that black nightie..."

"Why, hello, Gordon…" Tin-Tin glanced in the direction of the patio that looked down over the swimming pool. "What are you doing up here?"

Alan blanched. "Gordon! He didn't hear me did he?" he hissed.

Tin-Tin laughed. "I was joking, Alan. Gordon's still in the blast room with the others." She checked the chronometer on the wall of the lounge and watched as the second hand moved up to the vertical. "T minus nine..."

Down in the passenger launch cabin, Scott grimaced at John. "The suspense is killing me!"

John agreed with him. It was two days after he'd fainted and Brains had decided that he was strong enough to withstand the forces he'd have to endure to leave Earth's gravity - and had supplied him with a carton of mega-strength iron tablets to fortify him during the following days. Everyone else had had a suspicion that if John had been grounded, he would have mutinied, or at least stowed away on board Thunderbird Three. "I'll let you into a secret, Scott. I'm scared I'll black out."

"Yeah," Scott admitted. "It's been years since we've done this. I never had any problems with being down here in previous launches because I never had time to think about it. This time I've still got another," he looked at his watch, "eight point five minutes before I can even unfasten myself from this chair."

"At least you're used to sudden accelerations. The fastest I've had to move these last seven years was the time I spilt my freshly made, very hot, coffee on my trousers ten minutes before I was due to meet the CEO of one of the biggest construction firms in Europe to discuss a multi-billion dollar cooperative agreement. I was a lucky my pants were made out of Tracy Textile's latest and greatest invention!" Now sounding like a sales rep detailing a wonder product, John continued. "Self-cleaning, rapid-drying, Tracon. Guaranteed to bounce back from any liquid emergency as good as new."

Scott laughed.

"T minus eight..."

In a blast-proof bunker just off Thunderbird Three's launch bay, things were equally dull and stressful. Virgil, Gordon and Brains, dressed in fire-retardant suits, were ready to dash to the rescue should the spaceship go up in flames. In the meantime they were cooling their heels and hoping that their services wouldn't be needed.

"Boy, this thing's hot," Gordon pulled at the neck of his suit and fanned his face with his hood. "I thought they were supposed to be fire-retardant, not fire-starting. I'm burning up!"

Brains went to a nearby water-cooler and poured out three cups. "Th-There you are." He handed one to Gordon. "Th-That should cool you down."

"Thanks." Gordon accepted the cool liquid and held it against his overheated forehead. Then he gulped down a huge mouthful; on which he gagged. "That tastes like we haven't changed the water since the last time Thunderbird Three launched!"

"Oh..." Brains took a tentative sip and screwed up his face. "You m-may be right. It hasn't been a h-high priority."

"Maybe we should change that priority list."

"T minus seven."

Virgil cast a concerned eye over the console that displayed Thunderbird Three's readouts and was marginally reassured by what he saw. "It's hard to believe that we used to be so blasé about Thunderbird Three launching; almost as if sending a rocket into space was as common as driving a car to the shops. Now I think I'm more knotted up inside than I was the first time we launched her."

"Me too," Gordon agreed. "I'd be happier if we'd had longer to test her. Heck, I'd be happier if we had longer full stop! This first week's flown."

"Tell me about it," Virgil agreed. "When I think of everything we've got to do in only three months…" He shook his head.

Gordon sympathised. By his workstation Virgil had tacked up several lists of things to do. One was headed "Urgent" – underlined twice in red. One was headed "important", one "necessary", and one "if time". It had seemed to Gordon that every time he'd gone past these lists the "Urgent" column had gotten longer while the others had shrunk.

"Wh-What stage are you up to with your repairs to Thunderbird Four, Gordon?" Brains asked.

"I've programmed the computer with schematics of the panels I'm going to need for both skins," Gordon told him. "Now that the sheets of cahelium have arrived I'm going to start cutting today. With any luck I'll have the internal hull ready by the end of the week and, depending on what hiccoughs I come across, I'm hopeful I'll be able to relaunch her in the middle of next month."

"Don't forget to let me know if you need help with anything," Virgil reminded him. "How far have you progressed with the detonators, Brains?"

"Tin-Tin and I are, er, working on the acoustic concussion generators. Th-The virtual simulations are working well and I am, er, hopeful that we will start assembling a prototype th-this afternoon."

"It sounds interesting," Virgil admitted. "I wish I had the time to see what you're…"

"T minus six."

"…doing."

The minutes ticked by. "T minus five minutes and counting," was followed by "T minus four and then "T minus three."

Alan heard Tin-Tin say "T minus two… Start ignition sequence."

"Starting sequence," Alan responded, and flicked a few buttons on the control panel. "All systems green… Applying power to engines." Slowly he pushed forward on a lever.

In the passenger launch cabin Scott and John felt the vibrations build up beneath them.

They heard Tin-Tin's voice through the intercom. "T minus one and counting… Fifty seconds to launch… Forty Five seconds… Forty…"

Scott wriggled in his harness to make sure he was braced against his seat, and then pulled the straps tighter. "Ready, John?"

"It's too late to back out now, even if I wasn't."

"…Thirty seconds to launch…."

Fire fighting equipment strapped firmly to their backs; hoses grasped firmly in their gloved hands; fire-retardant hoods down and sealed firmly to their suits; Brains, Gordon and Virgil counted down the seconds.

"…Fifteen seconds to launch… You're clear to go, Thunderbird Three."

"Engines at twenty five percent." Alan pushed the lever further forward.

"…Ten seconds to launch…"

"Thirty percent…"

"Nine…"

"Thirty Five…"

"Eight…"

"Forty…"

"Seven…"

"Forty Five…"

"Six…"

"Fifty percent thrust…"

Everyone joined Tin-Tin in her countdown.

"Five seconds…"

…

"Four…"

"…Seventy five percent thrust…"

"Three…"

"…and holding…"

"Two…"

"…standing by…"

"One…!"

"Full power!" Alan pressed the lever as far forward as it would go. Thunderbird Three trembled as her engines developed full thrust for the first time in over seven years, and then launched herself to the sky.

"We have lift-off!" Tin-Tin grabbed a portable microphone and ran out onto the patio. Thunderbird Three was already a large dot in the sky by the time her eyes had adjusted to the glare of the morning sun. "Goodbye and good luck, Alan."

Alan, pressed back into his seat by the g-forces Thunderbird Three was producing, didn't hear his wife's farewell. His blood was pounding in his ears; adrenaline was coursing through his system; he felt a pressure on his chest and tingling in his extremities. Then he felt free.

He'd forgotten what a buzz a rocket launch could be. These past seven years he'd come to believe that nothing could top a dog fight with another competitor on the racetrack; nothing was better than crossing the winning line first after a hard fought race; nothing in the world could surpass standing on the top of the victory dais…

Nothing except feeling the power of his space ship pushing against Earth's gravity towards the weightlessness of space… Nothing except feeling Thunderbird Three respond to his every command…

Nothing except the knowledge that he was going to be doing something to help others…

-F-A-B-

"Well, we're still in one piece," Scott undid his safety harness, stood and stretched. "Let's get up there."

"Wait!" John caught his arm and held him back. "Give him a moment alone with her."

"Alone with her?!"

"Thunderbird Three."

"Oh!" Scott's frown of confusion cleared. "I thought for a moment you meant that he'd smuggled Tin-Tin on board." He looked upwards towards the flight deck. "I guess we're not in that much of a hurry…"

-F-A-B-

Brains pushed his hood off his head. "The launch, er, went well."

Virgil removed his own hood and smiled at the little engineer. "It sure did, Brains. It makes me think that we might just have a chance at pulling off a miracle and saving the planet."

"Well, in the meantime, I'm more interested in saving my mouth from that foul tasting water," Gordon said. "I'm going to get myself something tastier to drink. Are you two going to join me before we head back to the sweat shops?"

"No, thanks," Virgil said. "I'm going to get into something cooler and then get down to work."

Gordon took a detour through the lounge on the way from the kitchen. He found Tin-Tin standing on the patio; still staring up towards the heavens.

His heart went out to his sister-in-law and he placed his glass on the coffee table before he joined her on the patio. "He'll be back before you know it," he reminded her; giving her shoulders a brotherly squeeze.

Tin-Tin sighed. "I know. It's just that this is the longest we've been apart since we've been married."

"Well, they say absence makes the heart grow fonder. Although I think Marina and I are the exception to the rule."

Tin-Tin sighed again. "I wish my father was here."

"He's still arriving tomorrow, isn't he?"

"Yes."

"Good. I'm drooling so much in anticipation of that first mouthful of his home cooking, that I could fill my swimming pool." Gordon realised that rather than brightening, Tin-Tin seemed to be getting more despondent. "Cheer up. Alan's only going to be gone for a few days. Just think, in three months you'll have him all to yourself. By the time you get back from Arnie you might be asking me for the number of my solicitor."

Tin-Tin managed a small smile. "I could never do that."

Gordon gave her another squeeze. "I'm sure you're right. At least you two started out on the right foot. You were friends before you started your relationship."

His efforts at cheering her up seemed to be achieving the opposite effect. "Oh, Gordon..." Tin-Tin leant into him as she tried to offer comfort of her own. "I wish I could help you."

"Don't worry about me." Gordon wrapped both arms about her. "My problems are all my fault and no one else's. You just concentrate on getting that detonator operational in time." He kissed her on top of her head.

"Oh, yes…" The pair of them turned when they heard a voice behind them. "Alan's barely through the stratosphere and you're already making a move on his wife."

Gordon released Tin-Tin and glared at a smirking Virgil, now dressed in his work overalls and steel toe-capped boots. "Tin-Tin knows I'd never do that."

"That's true," Tin-Tin admitted. "If there's one thing that I'm absolutely, totally confident about, it's that I know I can trust my four brothers-in-law... And Brains," she added as an afterthought.

"But not Alan?" Gordon teased.

"Well..." she teased back. "Maybe I trust him just a little bit."

Relieved that Tin-Tin seemed to be a bit happier, Gordon turned to his brother. "Are you going to surprise everyone and have a shave before Thunderbird Three gets back?"

Virgil, maintaining that they didn't have much time and that every second was precious, had forgone shaving this past week and his face was covered in a thick brown fuzz peaked by his blue goatee. "If Scott can't deal with the way I look then that's his problem not mine," he snapped. He turned on his heel and, sky-blue ponytail swinging angrily, stalked out of the lounge.

Bemused, Gordon and Tin-Tin looked at each other.

Gordon scratched his head. "Who mentioned Scott?"

Tin-Tin was frowning. "Something's been bothering him about Scott for a while."

"I'm beginning to think that it's just as well we're all going to be going our separate ways on this mission," Gordon mused. "Because I think we're going to have to relearn to trust each other. _Really_ trust each other…. And speaking of going separate ways, I must love you and leave you, my Lady." He kissed Tin-Tin on the hand and left her giggling.

He caught up with Virgil in the fastenings store. "Is everything all right?"

Virgil looked surprised. "Yes. Why?"

"That comment you made about Scott had me wondering if everything's okay between the pair of you."

"Just as okay as between you two," Virgil retorted. Then he pulled himself up short. "I'm sorry. Forget I said that." He offered his brother an apologetic grin as he pulled a drawer out from the wall of fastenings and started counting out bolts into a container. Beneath the drawer an electronic device weighed the remaining bolts, calculated the number left behind, and printed the result in red digits on an adjacent display; as a remote computer recorded the tally and calculated how many more could be used before those bolts would need to be replenished.

The brothers ignored the behind the scenes activity. "Did Scott tell you what happened between us?" Gordon asked as Virgil slid the drawer home again.

Virgil shook his head. "No. Scott's very good at keeping things to himself." He moved along to the washers store.

Gordon had heard a note of bitterness in his brother's voice, but decided against the direct approach. He took a sip of his drink and smacked his lips. "I'll say one thing for Marina, I don't know what brand she used, but her cranberry juice always tasted better than any other. Would you like a mouthful?"

"No, thanks. I can make do with water while I'm working. I think we've refreshed most of the water-coolers down here."

"Thank heavens for that." Gordon took another sip and thought. "I was going to start putting the inner hull sheets through the CNC cutter this morning. I wouldn't mind a hand lining them up."

"Sure. Just give me a moment to finish this." Virgil counted the equivalent number of nuts into his container alongside the bolts and washers and slid the drawer home. He indicated the readout which stated that 20,356 nuts were still housed in the drawer. "Did that change?"

"I didn't notice."

Virgil took out a couple more nuts and slid the drawer shut. The readout remained the same. He pulled out the drawer, removed still more nuts, and pushed it home again with more force. The readout remained obstinately on 20,356. "What's wrong with this stupid thing?!" He tried pulling out other drawers before finally, exasperated with the whole unit, slammed his hand against the panel that concealed the computer's workings. The wall of red numbers went blank. "Oh, great! Just great!" He yanked the drawer out again, sending nuts flying onto the floor. "Stupid computer…"

"Calm down," Gordon advised. "It might just need a reboot."

"After seven years it needs more than a reboot! It needs replacing! What if we run out of something because the computer's not giving an accurate reading?!"

"Then we'll get John to have a look at it when he gets home," Gordon suggested. "He'll be happy to be able to do something constructive."

Virgil looked at the nuts in his hand and then dropped them back into their drawer. "I guess so…" He slammed the drawer shut. "Did you say you wanted me to give you a hand?"

"If you wouldn't mind…"

Virgil followed Gordon into the computer numerical controlled equipment room. "How are you doing this?"

Gordon put his empty glass on a worktable. "At the moment I'm concentrating on the internal hull. It's going to be attached to Thunderbird Four's original framework. Then I'm going to lay a honeycomb of hexorhombi between that and the outer shell, which'll be made out of cahelium."

"Light but strong," Virgil approved. "Sounds like a good plan."

"She's got to be strong," Gordon admitted. "When I think of the pressures she's going to have to withstand, it makes my blood run cold. I'm going to be down in the deepest part of the world's oceans, literally miles away from help. At night I close my eyes and I can see the portholes pop out of Thunderbird Four's frame as all that weight of water presses down on top of her. I hear her collapsing about me as she's crushed like an egg. I'll be crushed before Thunderbird Four ascends 50 metres. I'll be helpless as the water rushes in."

Virgil frowned. His brother was sounding more than a little concerned at what lay ahead of him. "_If_ it rushes in," he corrected.

"If Thunderbird Four remains intact enough to get to the surface," Gordon continued, seemingly without hearing Virgil's comment, "I'll either have to ascend so fast that I'll die from the bends; or so slow that I'll run out of oxygen before I reach safety! I can't sleep for thinking about it!"

"But none of that should happen, should it?" Virgil asked. "Not with the precautions you've got planned."

"I'm working from a theory. That's all we're doing this time, aren't we? Working from theories and hypotheses!"

"Good theories, based on hard evidence," Virgil soothed. "It's just like every other rescue we've done."

"No it's not! You don't know what it's like to be overwhelmed by the sea! I don't want to live through that again! I couldn't live through that again!"

"Gordon, the odds of that happening..."

Not listening, or not hearing, Gordon started pacing up and down. "I don't want to go through that pain again; I don't want to relive that helplessness. I know what Neptune is capable of when you invade his territory and I don't want to incur his wrath. Virgil!" Gordon grabbed the front of his brother's overalls. "What am I going to do? I'm going to be diving down to where Neptune lives. I'm going to be facing him again! And he's going to try to crush me! I know he is! He tried once and he failed and I know he's waiting for the opportunity to try again…!"

Virgil, growing more worried about Gordon's apparent growing hysteria, gently prised his brother's fingers free of the blue material.

Gordon let go and started pacing again. "Once you've completed laying your charge you may as well head straight home because Neptune won't want to release me from his clutches! Once he gets you in his grip you're trapped forever. And you can't beg him for mercy. Not Neptune. He wouldn't listen to mere mortals like us. Cahelium and hexorhombi! What good is that against the god of the sea?!"

"Calm down. You're being silly!"

"I'm going to have the full weight of the Pacific Ocean on top of me! All that weight of water on one little submarine! Thunderbird Four and I won't have a chance! I'll never see you guys again!" Now clearly panicking, Gordon grabbed at Virgil's sleeves, bruising his brother's upper arms. "I'm going to die, Virgil. I'm going to die!" Beads of sweat stood out on his forehead and upper lip.

"You're not going to die!" Virgil tried to free himself from the limpet-like hold. "You are not going to die! We'll make sure that Thunderbird Four's strong!"

"Strong!?" Gordon gave a bitter, but hysterical, laugh. "Strong?!"

"Let me go…"

"We've only got four months! Less that that! How can we make her strong in that amount of time? _And_ you've got to get Thunderbird Two ready. And Scott and Alan and John have got to get Thunderbird Five ready..."

Virgil could feel his little brother trembling. "Let me call Brains..." he suggested.

"_And_ you've got to get The Mole ready! And Brains and Tin-Tin have got to get the detonators ready! Detonators! I've got to carry explosives down to the deepest part of the ocean… I..." Gordon wiped his forehead with his sleeve and gulped. "I..." Chest heaving, his legs seemly turning to jelly, he fell against his brother.

"Gordon!?" Virgil exclaimed, alarmed by this sudden collapse. "What's wrong?"

"C… Can't bre…" Gordon gasped.

His arms freed, Virgil grabbed his hyperventilating brother to support him. "What did you say?"

"I… I c-can't" *gulp* "breathe!"

Virgil, struggling with the full weight of a muscular swimmer, was becoming seriously concerned.

Apparently haunted by some otherwise unseen apparition, Gordon looked around wide-eyed. "The… The..." He clawed at his face. "Get it off me!" he shrieked.

"There's nothing there!" Virgil grabbed the clawing hand as several red marks appeared on Gordon's cheek. "Come and sit down."

"Dying!" Gordon moaned, his legs giving way. "I'm dying…"

"No you're not!" Virgil hauled him upright. "Listen to me, Gordon. You are _not_ dying!"

"Help…" *gulp* "Help – me – Virgil."

"I'm trying to. Now listen to me! You are not dying. This is a panic attack. Now, don't try to talk," Virgil advised as he lowered Gordon onto a seat. "Let me feel your pulse." He took Gordon's arm and was not surprised to feel the racing beat. "Calm down, Gordon. Try to take deep, slow breaths."

"I... I..." Gordon gulped again. "Sick..."

"You feel like you're going to be sick?"

Gordon nodded.

Unwilling to leave his brother, who still appeared to need him for physical support, Virgil tipped his nuts, bolts and washers onto the ground and held out the container. "Use that."

Gordon clung to the bowl. "Hot... So hot... I..." He flexed his fingers. "T... Tingling."

Virgil saw the gesture. "Your fingers are tingling?"

Gordon nodded, pulled at his collar and then dropped the container, wrapping his arms about him. "C-Cold." He shivered.

"Can you support yourself for a moment?" Virgil ran across to the nearby first aid kit and pulled a thermal blanket out of it. "Here, wrap this around you."

"Th-Thanks."

Virgil sat next to his brother, pulling him close to try to warm him up. "I'm going to call Brains, okay?" he said, rubbing Gordon's back.

"No!" Gordon grabbed Virgil's watch arm. "Don't..." He took a deep breath. "Don't do that!"

"Gordon," Virgil protested. "Look at you! You're having a panic attack! I can't leave you like this!"

"I... I'll be all... right. I... I'm feeling better."

"Gordon..."

"No," Gordon repeated. "I'm..." he swallowed and tried to take a deep, calming breath. "I'm all right. Honest." The red-head looked pleadingly at his big brother. "Don't disturb Brains. Here..." he stuck out his arm, "take my pulse again." Virgil hesitated and then accepted the invitation. "It's slower... Right?"

Virgil nodded. "It is slower."

"See, I told you there's nothing to worry about…" Gordon swallowed again. "I'm thirsty. Would you mind getting me a drink of water?"

"Will you be okay for a moment?"

Gordon managed a wan smile. "I'll be all right."

Virgil dashed across to the nearby water cooler and filled Gordon's cranberry juice glass. When he returned Gordon had his arms across his knees and had buried his face into them. "Here."

Gordon straightened. "Thanks." Still shaking, he accepted the glass. Water sloshed all over his hands.

"Let me help you." Virgil held the glass steady as he helped his brother to drink. "Feeling better?"

"Yes." Gordon let out a deep breath, closed his eyes, and relaxed back against the wall; pulling the thermal blanket about him as if its embrace added to his sense of security.

"Have you ever had a panic attack before?"

"No…" Gordon opened his eyes. "I've seen them, as you know, but I've never experienced one. I had the symptoms, didn't I? I thought I was dying…"

"Did you really?"

"Yeah. I felt like something was pressing down on my face; smothering me… I couldn't breathe properly." Gordon laid his hand on his chest. "My heart was pounding so hard that I thought it was trying to break my ribs. But what was weird was that while I was fully aware that it was probably a panic attack, another part of me was convinced that I was on the way out. One minute I was hot, the next I was cold. I was shaking. My hands are still tingling a little bit…" Gordon flexed his fingers. "It scared me, Virg."

"You gave me a heck of the fright too, but I didn't think you were dying. I thought you were sick."

"For a moment there I thought I was having a stroke like Dad. One minute I was fine, the next I was out of control. It was as though all my problems were smothering me: Marina, the divorce, Doomsday, diving down into the Mariana, worrying about Thunderbird Four, Tracy Island erupting, being scared for you guys..." Virgil watched closely for any signs of the distress that Gordon had suffered earlier, but there were none. "It was as though everything came crushing down on top of me all at once and there was nothing I could do about it."

"Can I help?"

"Don't worry about me, Virgil, I'm overtired, that's all. I haven't had a good night's sleep since I arrived here. I kind of doze off and then wake up again thinking I've been asleep for hours and then discover that it's only been about ten minutes."

Virgil frowned. "Are you really having that much trouble sleeping?"

Gordon nodded. "Even Brains picked that up when he gave me my physical. He spotted an overdose of some type of hormones in my system or something."

"This could be serious. Can he do anything?"

"I don't want to have to use drugs unless it's really necessary," Gordon explained. Then he shrugged. "I suppose I could always try sleeping in our quarters in Thunderbird Two. I always got a good sleep in there."

"That might not be a stupid idea," Virgil agreed. "Or use a SWSG." The slow-wave sleep generators had helped them have short but restful naps when on long rescue missions.

"If any of them still work." Gordon placed his hand on Virgil's arm. "Please, don't tell Brains. He's got enough to worry about."

"Don't you think we should tell Scott?"

"Not Scott!" Gordon looked alarmed at the suggestion. "We can't tell Scott! He'll only stress unnecessarily. You know what he's like."

"I thought I did," Virgil admitted.

"Huh?"

Virgil ignored the query. "Forget Scott's our brother. He's the commander of International Rescue. Our commander! What would you have said, when you were commander of the bathyscaphe, if you found out that someone had had a similar problem and hadn't reported it to you?"

"I'd have disciplined them. But this is different! We had to live together in a confined space."

"And we're not now?"

"If Scott learns that I temporarily lost it he's going to take me off the squad! There's no one to replace me! No one has the skills I've got, and no one will have the time to learn them."

Virgil had to admit that Gordon had a point. But that didn't stop him from trying to press home his argument. "Gordon, even if this was only a one-off attack, it still wouldn't hurt for Scott, or Brains, or someone to be aware it happened in case it happens again."

"You're someone." Gordon shrugged the thermal blanket from off his shoulders and started to fold it up.

"But…"

"And you're aware of what happened. You're the one who's working in the next hangar. And you're the one who'll be dropping me at the danger zone. So why do we have to tell anyone else?"

"Because…" Virgil tried, and failed, to think of a definitive answer. "All right," he agreed reluctantly. "But you've got to call me the instant you think something's wrong. Okay?"

"Okay."

Virgil indicated his watch. "Buzz me and I'll come running."

"Thanks."

"Even if it's a false alarm."

"Thanks, Virgil. I've got the picture."

"But don't think I'm happy that you're not telling Brains," Virgil grunted.

"Like I said, I got the picture." Gordon stood and started folding the blanket into the smallest package he could. "Are you scared?"

Virgil looked surprised at the question. "Scared?" He took the end of the blanket to help fold it.

"Of what you've got to do?"

Virgil considered his answer. "I'm not scared by the idea that I've got to drill down into the Dead Sea Transform. It's not that much different to what we've done before, and I think, compared to the rest of you guys, I've got the easy job. It's other things that frighten me."

Throughout their years in International Rescue, Gordon had never been aware of any situation where his older brother had expressed any form of fear. "Like what?"

"Like… It's been years since I've done any work on this scale." Virgil waved his hand, encompassing the CNC machines around them. I did some maintenance with the Hawks, but I didn't have time for that once I became the captain."

"Hawks?"

"New York Hawks Aerobatic Team."

"Oh…" It took a moment for this bit of information to sink in. "You're the captain of the New York Hawks Aerobatic Team?"

"I was. I resigned to come here."

"But I saw those guys fly once. They were great!"

"Thanks."

Gordon was shaking his head in disbelief. "You can't be part of the Hawks!" he exclaimed.

"You sound like Scott! Believe it or not, I'm a pretty good pilot!"

"I know that!" Gordon back-pedalled. "I've always known that. I couldn't have trusted you to drop me into the ocean and then pick me up again if you weren't. And I had no issues with your piloting skills when I did that air-to-air transfer from Thunderbird Two to Fireflash. It's just that I didn't know that part about the Hawks!"

"I was keeping it secret," Virgil admitted. "I wanted to surprise everyone sometime, but the opportunity never arose."

"That's a pity, I would have loved to have seen Scott's face when he realised it was you doing those loop-de-loops."

"So would I."

"Anyway, getting back to the present," Gordon dropped back into the seat next to his brother. "So what if you haven't done a lot of large-scale maintenance lately? It's just like riding a bicycle, isn't it?"

"I wish it was. I let my welding compliance certificate lapse about two years ago."

"But surely you don't need a piece of paper to know what you're doing?"

"Don't you believe it. I've already looked up the Internet and my old text books four times to check that I was doing everything right."

"And you were, weren't you?"

"Yes," Virgil conceded.

"See!" Gordon cheered. "Nothing to worry about!"

"But I am worried. I'm the one who's had the formal training. You guys have all got a good… Um…" Virgil thought for a moment. "Basic's the wrong word."

"Informal?" Gordon suggested. "As in a lack of formal training?"

Virgil nodded. "That'll do. You've all got a good informal knowledge of how to do things, especially anything related to International Rescue's systems and your own specialities, but I'm the one who's going to be relied on to do the…"

"Formal," Gordon suggested.

Virgil managed a wry smile. "…work. I'm the one who's got to confirm that your welding's up to the standard required to withstand the pressures of the deep; and I no longer have the certification to show that I've got the expertise to do it. Plus there's so much that has to be done; and so little time to do it. That's what really scares me…"

"_That_," Gordon agreed, "is scary."

And another thing that worries me," Virgil added. "Do you get the feeling that we are lacking the cohesion that we had before?"

Gordon nodded his understanding. "Tin-Tin and I were discussing that before I came down here."

"And what did you decide?"

"That it's just as well that we're all going to be operating separately."

"Yes," Virgil agreed. "It's scary, isn't it?"

Gordon gave a big sigh, and tossed the thermal blanket onto the table next to him. "You've got tons to do and I'm holding you up. You could be having a shave instead of talking to me."

"Just be glad that I take the time to have a shower." Virgil rubbed his bristly jaw. "Why have you got such a thing about me not shaving?"

"That that two-tone look doesn't suit you..." Virgil managed a chuckle. "But let me tell you one thing, Virg..." Gordon turned to face his big brother. "I don't care what Scott thinks. I trust you. I don't care what you look like or what you've been doing. You could have been doing body painting in a nudist colony for the last seven years..." This time Virgil laughed. "...and I would still trust you. I know that you'll give International Rescue one hundred percent."

Virgil smiled. "Thanks, Gordon. Hearing you say that means a lot."

"But I do have one question."

"What's that?"

"I keep wondering who you're hiding from behind those whiskers."

Virgil held Gordon's eye. "I'm hiding from the failure who stares at me from the mirror every morning."

Unprepared for Virgil's sudden brutal honesty, Gordon didn't react when the in-house intercom buzzed them.

Virgil stood. "I'll get that..."

-I-R-

-F-A-B-

Thunderbird Five loomed dark and forbidding, silhouetted against the pinpoints of celestial light. Alan switched on a powerful spotlight and swung it, its beam invisible in the vacuum of space, so it was pointing at the space station.

Like a magic trick Thunderbird Five appeared out of the blackness.

"She looks okay from this angle," Scott stated. "Let's do a slow circuit, Alan."

"Right." His actions as much instinctive as through conscious thought, Alan nudged Thunderbird Three in a slow orbit of her sister ship.

"How does she look to you, John?" Scott asked.

"Dead," was the blunt answer. "She always used to be bright and welcoming whenever I returned home." His brothers noted the "returned home" statement, but didn't pass comment.

Alan adjusted their trajectory so that they were circling about Thunderbird Five's vertical axis. "Anyone see anything of concern?"

"Negative," Scott replied. "Bring her alongside the docking port, Alan. It's time you and I did a spacewalk."

John said nothing. He knew that he should be one of the two attempting the dangerous spacewalk; an idea that had quickly been vanquished when he'd attempted to get into his spacesuit. He could do it up, but it was so tight that walking was uncomfortable and sitting impossible. Even in the weightlessness of space, restricted movements would be a serious handicap.

He watched as his brothers discarded their civilian clothes and pulled on their spacesuits. They could have worn their International Rescue uniforms tucked away in the uniform lockers, but John had an uncomfortable feeling that Scott and Alan, knowing that his uniform was unlikely to fit him, had decided against wearing theirs in order to spare his feelings.

He'd never been one for self-pity. He'd always been different; more intelligent than his peers and less muscular than his brothers, and he'd always accepted that as a part of what made John Tracy John Tracy. But at that moment, and not for the first time, he hated himself and what he'd become.

"She's all yours, John," Alan said, forcing him out of his reverie. "No joyriding off to the nearest nebula, okay?"

John managed a smile. "I've got plenty to keep me occupied, thanks." He checked that his brothers' suits were sealed against the hostile environment that they were about to enter, and then watched as the airlock closed between them.

He was alone in Alan's spaceship, while his brothers worked to gain entry to his space station.

Suddenly furious, he ripped a page out of his notebook, screwed it up, and threw it on the floor. It did nothing to relieve his anger, but he didn't want to risk throwing something harder in case he caused catastrophic damage to what was presently his life capsule and their only way back to the safety of home.

-F-A-B-

"I wish Brains had come up with an easy opening option for breaking into Thunderbird Five," Alan griped, as he clipped his safety restraint to the frame that surrounded the work platform beneath the docking port. "Cutting through this plug so that we can dock Thunderbird Three and then cutting open the airlock to Thunderbird Five without causing any damage is going to take forever."

"True," Scott admitted. "There's a limit to what you can do in a vacuum. Still..." he triggered the ignition sequence that warmed up his acoustic disintegrator. "Let's do it!"

Together the pair of them set to work.

-I-R-

-F-A-B-

Brains, engrossed in the birth of a new tool in International Rescue's armoury, took a while to realise that his assistant was no longer working studiously at his side. In fact she was sitting at the end of the workbench and looked rather pale. "Tin-Tin? Are y-you feeling all right?"

"I'm sorry, Brains," Tin-Tin apologised, and massaged her hands. "But I felt a little tired."

He put down his ruler and moved closer. "Can I get you something to make you feel better?" he asked solicitously.

Tin-Tin shook her head. "I'll be all right. It's just that with the excitement of Father coming to live with us tomorrow, and the stress of Thunderbird Three's launch, and the worry that Thunderbird Five's not going to be able to be recommissioned, and…"

"And Alan leaving?" he asked; surprising her with his astuteness.

"Yes." She blushed lightly, which had the positive effect of returning some colour to her cheeks. "I'm already missing him." She sighed. "And I'm starting to wish that I'd done more work with Alan's racing team. I haven't worked this hard in years. We've hardly stopped for a break this week."

"I'm, er, sorry, Tin-Tin, but we do ha…"

Tin-Tin held up her hand. "I'm not asking for sympathy or that you expect less of me than you do. I'm just taking a while to get used to having my brain switched on for extended periods of time and using my hands so much." She gave Brains a gentle smile. "Maybe, instead of playing the race driver's wife these last few years, I should have been working for you."

"We didn't know that Doomsday w-would happen," he reminded her. "And as much as I would have, er, appreciated your assistance, it wasn't practical." He noticed that she was still massaging her fingers. "Is something wrong with your hands?"

"They're a little tingly," she admitted.

"Paresthesias?" he queried, and frowned. "That c-could be symptomatic of m-many things."

"Or it could just mean that I've been using my hands for longer than they're used to," she corrected. "Don't worry about me, Brains. You've got more important things to do." She slid off her stool. "What are we doing next?"

-I-R-

-F-A-B-

Inside Thunderbird Three John was working too. He could have spent his time stargazing, after all it was the best view of the heavens that he'd had in almost a decade, but he knew there would be plenty of time for unearthly pleasures. Now, he had a job to do.

He had decided days ago that if he couldn't do something practical on this first trip back to his Thunderbird, then he may as well do something that would help his brothers survive what they were going to face in three months time. Therefore he'd loaded the training simulator, used during their International Rescue days for mimicking different rescue scenarios, into Thunderbird Three's control room.

He started by wiping almost all of the existing terrain, disaster, and other data from the simulator's computer memory. He wanted the four scenarios they were going to be training for to be as realistic as possible, and he didn't need a small thing like a lack of memory compromising his brothers' safety.

Then he started programming, with occasional glances at various instruments to ensure that Thunderbird Three wasn't drifting and that his brothers were okay.

Alan and Tin-Tin's rescue was the first, because it was the one closest to his personal strengths. Star charts were easy to download into the computer's memory banks. Jupiter's orbit was carefully programmed so that the gas giant would be where the astronauts would expect to find it. Asteroid 2070SB was created out of photographs and pieced together to form a three dimensional image. Some of this was guesswork, but for an astronomer of John's calibre, the guesswork was based on personal knowledge and verified information.

John sat back, satisfied with his morning's efforts. He still hadn't programmed in the processes of attaching the booster to 2070SB; that would have to wait until Brains had finished designing it and he had a better idea of the device's size and weight. But in the meantime there were three other rescue scenarios to work on.

He decided to start with Gordon's. As he trawled the World Wide Web and numerous educational and research institutions to find the necessary photorealistic pictures, he realised that he had struck a problem. Nowhere could he find up-to-date photos of the Mariana Trench. Mankind had been so obsessed with looking outwards towards outer space the last few decades that inner space, beneath the oceans, had been all but ignored.

Stumped he sat back. But he wasn't prepared to let his younger brother battle the unknown without adequate preparation.

Suddenly inspired, he called Tracy Island. "Brains! Can you put me through to Gordon?"

"O-Of course, John. I think he's down in the CN..."

John grinned. Brains, so caught up in his work, had transferred his call before he'd finished his sentence. He hadn't heard the slight note of concern in the little scientist's voice.

"CNC room."

"Virgil? I was looking for Gordon."

"I..." Virgil glanced over at his brother, who was frowning at him. "I was giving him some help. Er..." Unsure if Gordon was ready to communicate with anyone else so soon after his panic attack, Virgil hesitated. "Can I take a message?"

"Yes. Ask him if he thinks the underwater probes will be strong enough to withstand a trip to the bottom of the Challenger Deep? I want to get some up-to-date pictures for the simulator."

Gordon indicated that he would continue the call. "I heard that, John. I haven't checked the probes out, but assuming that there's no degradation to them, I see no reason why they shouldn't get some good quality shots."

"Good."

Virgil excused himself, indicating by sign language that Gordon should call him when he wanted assistance.

Gordon nodded his understanding and then fixed his full attention on John's call. "The problem is, how do we get the probes to the Mariana Islands and who do we trust to operate them once we get there? None of us can be spared."

John had an idea. "Maybe Lady Penelope would like a northern hemisphere tropical holiday? She can use her yacht for a few innocent cruising expeditions."

"I like the way you're thinking, John," Gordon declared. "Do you want to give her a call and see if she's free?"

"I may as well. I've got more time on my hands than you," John agreed. "How are things going down there?"

"Ah... slowly," Gordon conceded. "We're going to need your skills when you get back. Virgil's gone into a spin because the stock controller's stopped working."

"I thought he sounded a bit distracted."

"I told him to reboot it."

"Knowing him, he's probably rebooting it with those steel-toecapped boots of his," John chuckled. "Tell him not to panic; it'll be one of the first things I check out when I get home."

"Thanks, John. We'll all appreciate that." Before John had a chance to ask more questions, Gordon continued. "How are things going up in space?"

"Great. Alan hasn't lost his touch with Thunderbird Three. I'm working on the simulator while they're outside unplugging Thunderbird Five's docking port."

"How long have they been at it?"

John checked his watch. "Must be close to three hours. We did too good a job sealing her up."

"Yes, you did. And they're making sure that they do a good job unsealing her so they don't damage Thunderbird Three or Five. And now, John, I'd better do a good job and go and check those probes. Don't forget to report in when you've docked or you've spoken to Penny. Whichever comes first."

"Will do, Gordon."

Gordon disconnected the call and took a deep breath as his anxieties gnawed at him. John had no idea how grateful he was that someone was taking his welfare seriously. He knew that the rest of the family cared, but they all had their own concerns, and a tangible example of someone offering to help meant the world to him.

-F-A-B-

"Anybody home?"

John turned to the microphone that was part of the control panel. "I haven't slipped out for a burger, Scott."

"Well, we wouldn't mind 'slipping in' for something less tasty. It's lunchtime! How about opening the external hatch?"

"Opening now." John watched as the lights indicating that the external door was open, then closed, and finally that the air pressure in the airlock was the same as he was experiencing. Then he pushed the button that allowed the internal door to slide open.

"Whew!" Alan removed his helmet and placed it on his pilot's seat. "That's got to be close to the longest spacewalk I've ever done." He rubbed his gloved hands together. "Those acoustic disintegrators start to affect you after a while. My hands are all tingly."

"So are mine," Scott admitted, as he pulled off his gloves.

The acoustic disintegrators were a device that emitted noise at the frequency that would disintegrate whatever it was you desired to remove, without damaging any of the surrounding materials. Out in the vacuum of space it was impossible to hear the sound, but you could still feel it as you pressed the acoustic disintegrator up against the blockage, and John reflected that after three hours it was no wonder that both brothers' hands were feeling irritated. "And I thought my hands were shot after pounding at the keyboard," he admitted. "Ah…" He tried to appear casual. "How much more do you have to do?"

Scott kept a straight face. "I'd say we'll be at it for another three hours."

John felt his face fall. "Oh."

"Until we get into Thunderbird Five proper. We can dock Thunderbird Three any time."

John's face lit up. "You're through?!"

Scott grinned. "We're through. We would have been through twenty minutes ago, but we wanted to make sure that there was nothing remaining that Thunderbird Three can snag on. We don't want to scratch Alan's baby, do we?"

Alan was grinning too. "So what do you say, John. Do you want to have lunch first; or dock Thunderbird Three and then have lunch?"

John did his best to appear calm and unconcerned. "You guys have been working for hours. You're probably starving."

"Oh, we are," Scott agreed. "But I'm sure we won't faint from hunger in the next ten minutes. So, you want to do it, Alan?"

Alan gave a casual shrug. "Sure. Why not?" He shifted his helmet to the floor and slipped into his seat.

"Well, John? Do you want to touch your 'bird?"

John couldn't bear it any longer. "Will you stop teasing me, Scott! Of course I want to touch her! Now stop wasting time and let's dock!"

Scott turned to their youngest brother. "It's over to you, Alan."

"Okay." Alan ignited the engines and swung Thunderbird Three around in a graceful loop so that her nose was pointed directly into the docking port. "Fingers crossed." Carefully, more carefully than he'd ever docked her before, he manoeuvred his spaceship into the circular tunnel that linked the two craft together.

John waited patiently as Thunderbird Five swallowed them up.

Finally Alan cut the engines. "Docking complete." He indicated a circle of green lights that had lit up on the control panel. "We have an airtight seal." He smiled at John. "She's through there," he indicated Thunderbird Three's airlock.

John could feel his heart pounding as he stepped up to the circular door. It slid upwards and he stepped through to the exterior hatch, hearing the internal door whisper shut behind him.

Alan checked the seal again. "Opening exterior hatch."

John heard his brother's voice and barely had time to react as Thunderbird Three's exterior hatch opened, presenting him with his first close up view of Thunderbird Five in over seven years. He reached out and touched the exterior airlock hatch that was the personnel link between Thunderbirds Three and Five. The metal was cold and yet it warmed his heart. He might not yet have the key to the door, but he was finally home. Suddenly impatient, he took a step backwards. "You can let me in again."

When he re-entered Thunderbird Three's control room he was greeted with two puzzled frowns. "Was something wrong?" Scott asked.

"No. I was wasting time standing there looking at a locked door. The sooner we have lunch, the sooner we can check out her interior."

Scott grinned. "Alan, why don't you go and make a start refilling the oxygen tanks, while John and I see what delicacies we've got on board?"

Alan was clearly hungry after his morning's work because he made no comment as he hurried out of the control room.

Scott picked up his oxygen tank and placed it against the wall.

"Scott…"

Scott turned. "Yes?"

"Thanks." John looked slightly embarrassed. "Thanks for letting me touch Thunderbird Five."

Scott picked up his helmet. "I know I'm not the most sensitive of guys," he admitted, tracing the outline of the International Rescue logo on its side, "but your comment about letting Alan have some time alone with Thunderbird Three got me thinking. When we were opening up Tracy Island I was excited at the prospect of seeing Thunderbird One again. I didn't think I would be; I thought I'd left that part of my life well and truly in the past and that it didn't mean anything to me any more. But when the moment came to step through that door…" He shrugged, rotating the helmet in his hands. "And this is only a plane that I'd fly from point A to point B on occasion… But you _lived_ in Thunderbird Five. It was your home, your security, your…" He shrugged again. "I'm no good at words. But you gave up a lot before we shut down International Rescue and I… no, _we_ figured that you deserved the chance to get reacquainted with Thunderbird Five alone." He finally looked at his brother.

John smiled at what had turned out to be quite a long speech. But conversely his reply was short. "Thanks."

-I-R-

-F-A-B-

"Delicious" wasn't a word that John would have used to describe lunch. Not that he cared. He was only hours away from exploring Thunderbird Five again.

"You're not eating," Scott noted.

"I'm supposed to be dieting, remember?"

Scott screwed up his face. "If anything's going to encourage anyone to give up food it's this tasteless garbage."

"Yeah," Alan agreed. "Thank heavens Kyrano's moving back to the island tomorrow. We're finally going to get some real food!"

"Which, fortunately for my diet, we won't be sampling for the next few days," John reminded him. "What with this tasteless food and working in zero gravity, I might be able to move in my spacesuit by the end of this trip."

"The problem with that is that you'll be losing muscle not fat," Scott warned. He turned back to the younger blonde. "So you've got no qualms about living with your father-in-law?"

"None."

John pretended to grimace. "Imagine being married to the daughter of an expert in half a dozen martial arts!"

"And worse still," Scott played along, "knows how to handle a knife!" He gave a dramatic shiver. "It'd make you think twice about having a lovers' quarrel, let alone a full blown argument."

"Laugh all you want, Fellas, Kyrano and I have always got along" Alan told them. "Besides, remember that at least I've got married. I don't see gold bands on your fingers." He enjoyed a brief moment of pleasure at seeing his elder brothers exhibit some discomfort.

Ignoring his returning sense of inadequacy, and the fact that he was missing Emma, John tipped the rest of his lunch into its wrapper. "I suppose we should be grateful that Alan didn't marry someone like Marina."

This time Scott's shiver was genuine. "I don't know what Gordon saw in that woman! I couldn't stand the sight of her!"

"We guessed," Alan drawled.

"She's going to be out of his and all our lives soon, Scott," John reminded him. "Don't go giving yourself an ulcer over her now."

Scott devoted the last of his anger into screwing up his lunch's wrapper and then got to his feet. "Come on, Alan. The sooner we get that hatch opened the sooner we can do some real work."

"And I've got a call to make," John admitted. "I've got a job for Penny."

"Doing what?" Scott asked as he rechecked his oxygen tank.

"Taking one of our probes and getting footage of the Mariana Trench so I can feed the images into the simulator."

Scott, reaching for his helmet, stopped. "That's a good idea. Gordon's clearly worried about his mission. Some practise will help him gain some confidence." He slipped his helmet over his head. "And I won't have any complaints if you do the same for the terrain above the Bentley Subglacial Trench."

"How hard can that be to replicate?" Alan asked and pulled on his own helmet. "It'll all be white."

"That's what worries me. It's all white with an occasional volcano rearing up out of the snow. I'll need to know exactly where each hill is in relation to the trench."

"Don't worry, I'm making sure everyone's terrain is up-to-date. I've already done all I can on yours, Alan. I was going to work on Gordon's next, but I'll hold off now until Penny gets us the pictures. It's relatively easy to get photos of Antarctica and I'll have to do a bit a research to get the correct data for the geological strata beneath the Dead Sea Transform, but I'll make sure you all have plenty of time to practise."

"Thanks, John," Scott said and submitted to having his spacesuit checked for potential leaks. Both he and Alan were going to be working within Thunderbird Three's airlock, but it was wiser to take precautions in case something happened to the seal between them and the airlessness of space.

When he was finally satisfied that his brothers were protected against that hostile environment, John let them into the airlock.

"Give our love to Penny," Alan instructed as the internal door slid shut.

John looked at his watch, calculated the time difference between his location and England, and decided that it wasn't too inconsiderate a time to give her a call.

Lady Penelope answered almost immediately, her smile of greeting warm. "Good day, John."

"Hiya, Penny. I've got a favour to ask of you."

Her eyes lit up. "I can be of assistance?"

"I think so." John explained about his problem with the lack of images of the deepest known part of the world's oceans. "Do you think you can help?"

"I should be delighted, dear boy. If the world is going to end, why shouldn't I treat myself to a tropical holiday? And of course I can get some holiday photos while I'm there. What is the weather like in that part of the world at the moment?"

"Oh, er, I hadn't checked," John admitted. He dialled up a weather web site. "Oh… It says here _stormy_. They're getting the tail end of Typhoon Ita. Is that going to cause problems?"

"Dear me, no," Lady Penelope laughed. "It shall add to the drama. It's always these little excitements that make holidays so memorable, don't you think?"

John smiled at her unperturbed attitude. "I'm sure you'll have a ball."

"I shall do my best."

"Thanks, Penny, Gordon's going to love you for this. We all are. Anything that can help him survive his divorce and everything else has got to be good."

Lady Penelope's eyes narrowed slightly. "What do you know about Marina's background?"

Surprised by the question, John shrugged. "Not a lot. I tried to have as little to do with her as possible, except when I had no option, and I got the impression that she felt the same about me once she discovered that I didn't have a hotline to Dad's fortune." He thought for a moment. "I think her family is from out east somewhere. Why?"

"I'm trying to get a better understanding as to why Gordon married her," Lady Penelope told him. "Just a girl's idle curiosity."

"Well, don't forget that curiosity killed the cat," John warned. "We don't want anything happening to you… I'd better get back to work."

"Goodbye, John."

"Bye, Penny. Oh! And Alan sends his love." John laughed.

Lady Penelope's eyes twinkled. "Only Alan?"

"Penny, you've got my everlasting loyalty and devotion." John signed off.

Lady Penelope sat for a moment, regarding the blank screen of her powder compact. "_Curiosity may have killed the cat_," she quoted. "_But information brought it back_. And I have a feeling that there is a lot of information that I am yet to find. Starting with what's on the bottom of the ocean… Parker!" She rang a heavily embroidered bell pull.

He responded almost immediately. "Yes, m'Lady?"

"Get out the Rolls Royce, Parker, and alert George to prepare the yacht for sailing."

"Sailing, m'Lady? My H-I h-enquire h-as to where we is going?"

"Our first port of call will be Tracy Island. We shall fly there. Then we shall meet up with FAB2 in the vicinity of the Philippines."

Parker bowed his head in understanding. "May H-I ask why we h-are going to the Philly-pines?"

"We are going to have a diving holiday into the Challenger Deep," Lady Penelope responded, and gave a refined laugh at her butler's expression of horror. "Cheer up, Parker. It is all in the name of service to International Rescue."

-I-R-

-F-A-B-

"How's it going, Alan?"

"My back's killing me," Alan grunted; on his knees as he disintegrated the last of the sealant around the bottom of the hatch.

"What's the matter, Kiddo?" Alan could hear the laughter in Scott's voice. "Getting old?"

"I'm not as old as you, Grandpa." Alan retorted as he straightened his aching back. "I'm done." He got to his feet. "Do you want to check my work while I check yours?"

"Good idea." The two brothers changed places and inspected each other's workmanship, occasionally zapping a miniscule particle away from the door.

They'd been working on the interior airlock hatch; the one which led directly into Thunderbird Five's control room. It had been the last line of defence against unscrupulous criminals and general busybodies and, like all the plugged and sealed defences, had done what had been asked of it; including doing a reasonable job of keep International Rescue out of the communications satellite.

Finally Scott stood back. "You've done a good job."

"So have you." Alan rotated his shoulders to try to loosen the muscles. "Is it time to let John in?"

"I think so." Scott switched channels. "Are you receiving me, John?"

"Strength five, Scott."

Scott grinned. This close to his Thunderbird and John was already slipping back into International Rescue mode. "Time to get suited up. We're going in."

"Okay."

John was in the process of struggling into his spacesuit when Scott and Alan returned to the warm air and artificial gravity of Thunderbird Three. "I think I need a shoehorn," he grunted as he struggled to slide the suit up his back.

"Take your time," Scott advised. "We'll replenish our oxygen supplies while we're waiting."

Five minutes later, and after John had submitted to jokes about his lack of mobility in his spacesuit, they were ready to make their first foray into Thunderbird Five. They stepped into Thunderbird Three's airlock and closed the door behind them.

Scott switched on the small but powerful headlamp that was attached to his helmet. "Okay, Alan. Let's do it!"

"Removing oxygen and decreasing artificial gravity," Alan announced, punching a code into a keypad.

John felt his body start to feel a sense of weightlessness for the first time in years. "This is better than going on a diet," he joked.

"Air pressure and gravity neutral." Alan opened Thunderbird Three's exterior hatch.

John, using a low powered jet pack, and closely followed by Alan and Scott carrying a combined heater/dehumidifier between them, floated out of the rocket ship and into the access passage leading to the main body of the satellite. He held a small keypad and he placed this on a panel embedded in the bulkhead and keyed in a code. The final airlock slid open, revealing the interior for the first time in seven years.

John stood at the entrance and surveyed what had once been his control room.

Here lay the lifeless corpse of Thunderbird Five.

She was as cold and as still as a morgue. Gone was the light that had accompanied his daily chores. Gone was the never-ending chatter of the voices of the world. Gone was the warmth and feeling of unquestionable security.

She was dark.

She was silent.

She was dead.

She was cold.

Icy cold. A thin film of ice covered every square inch, as if the spirit of all those who'd visited had shrouded the lifeless steel and electronics. Respiration, both human and vegetative from the hydroponic garden that had long ago been destroyed, had left water droplets in the air and some had frozen upon contact with the cold metal. As John looked around the control room 'airborne' ice crystals sparkled and danced in the movement of his headlamp's light. With no gravity to speak of there were no icicles suspended from the work surfaces or rising up from the floor; just an expanse of shimmering whiteness. It would have been beautiful if he hadn't known that it was deadly to Thunderbird Five's sensitive electronics.

He felt his heart grow cold; nearly as cold as Thunderbird Five.

"Oh, man…" He heard Alan's almost whimpered exclamation in his earpiece and realised that, while Thunderbird Five had always been his 'bird, his youngest brother had spent long enough here to feel the same sort of emotional attachment. Even Scott, whose stays had been sporadic, was clearly numbed by what had become of International Rescue's communications satellite.

John gave himself a mental shake. If they were going to have any chance at reversing the damage within three months, they were going to have to start working straight away. "Are we going to set the dehumidifiers up?" he asked.

Scott appeared to pull himself together. "Alan and I can take care of that. Why don't you have a look around and start taking an inventory of what needs replacing and what can hopefully be repaired. Don't be afraid to list any luxuries you might want; within reason. If you're going to be trapped here alone for four months, you've got to be comfortable."

"And let us know if you run into any polar bears!" Alan joked, trying to boost his brother's morale.

John pretended to shudder. "If _I_ see any, all _you'll_ see is a blur as I run past."

"Don't let Gordon hear you say that," Scott grinned. "He'll add it to your exercise regime."

"If he does that I'll put a shark in his pool," John retorted. "Give me a yell if you need a hand."

"Will do..."

_To be continued…_


	8. Chapter 8 - Reawakening

**Chapter Eight: Reawakening**

"Father!" Tin-Tin ran towards the small but powerful jet.

"My daughter!" Although a man not usually given to obvious displays of emotion, Kyrano swept his daughter up in a warm embrace. "It is good to see you."

"And it's good to see you too, Father," Tin-Tin enthused. "Did you have a good trip?"

"It was most peaceful. Are you well?"

"Oh, yes."

"And Mister Alan..."

"Father," Tin-Tin reproached. "He is your son-in-law. Can you not just call him Alan?"

Kyrano smiled his benign smile. "It is a long-held habit that is hard to break. Did Mister... Did Thunderbird Three's launch go well?"

"I was so nervous. We all were. We were all scared that we'd missed checking something vital. But it was flawless, and she flew up to the sky as if she hadn't been locked away in her hangar for the last seven years. And they've managed to get inside Thunderbird Five! Alan says that she's frozen solid and that they've had the heater and dehumidifier working non-stop since they got there, but everything's still iced up." She stopped to take a breath. "How is Mr Tracy?"

"Mr Tracy is your father-in-law," Kyrano reminded her. "Could you not call him something else?"

Tin-Tin blushed as she laughed. "You are right. It is a habit that is hard to break. How is he?"

"He is thriving on the new challenge, but he is also frustrated. There is much that he can not do."

"Is he missing the boys?"

"He does not say so, but I know that he is. I see it in his eyes." Kyrano gave Tin-Tin a light squeeze. "He misses his daughter-in-law too. As do I."

"And I've missed you, Father. It's going to be so good to have you here with us."

Kyrano chuckled. "I think I hear what my British colleagues at Kew would have called 'cupboard love'."

"Never!" Tin-Tin exclaimed. "But I am looking forward to your cooking. We all are. We finished the last of your pre-prepared meals two days ago."

"How is Mister Brains?"

"Happy," Tin-Tin admitted. "He is happy to be working in his old laboratory again."

"And your work goes well?"

"It is tiring, but I am enjoying myself too. It is so good to be using my skills again!"

-I-R-

-F-A-B-

John knocked the mattress, feeling it hard and unforgiving beneath his knuckles. "It's still frozen solid!" He looked at his younger brother, who blinked against the glare of the headlight.

"I'm not surprised," Alan remarked, shielding his eyes. "We haven't moved the heater in here yet... Can you look somewhere else? You're blinding me!"

John obliged by turning his attention back to his old bed. "If we had the pseudo-gravity generator operational we'd need a drip tray underneath as it defrosted." He rapped the bed again, hearing the wooden sound. They'd installed a portable oxygen generator in Thunderbird Five and it was circulating warm, breathable air throughout the space satellite and sound waves were now able to be heard without the use of radio microphones and earpieces. "This shows you how much moisture you lose when you're asleep... And I'm glad I'm not sleeping on it tonight! A new bed is definitely on my list of must-haves for Thunderbird Five."

"What else is on your list?"

"A new telescope."

Alan laughed, water vapour swirling out of his mouth and reflecting in the light from his headlamp. "Trust you, Johnny. What's wrong with the old one?"

"The same thing that's wrong with everything else in this place. It has ice all through it. The optics are all cracked and fogged up. The mirror looks like the Crab Nebula."

The two brothers floated back into the main control room.

"Good," Scott greeted them. "Time to do the rounds again."

"The rounds" was a tour of the control room and other vital areas removing the full buckets from under the dehumidifiers and replacing them with empty ones. The dehumidifiers had their own method of drawing the water from out of the air and into the buckets, but, without gravity, pouring the liquid into the grey-water tank was something of a problem. They'd solved it by the process of tipping the buckets upside-down within the confines of the tank, lifting the bucket off the resulting blob, and then using a large flat piece of plastic, slightly smaller in diameter than the tank, to push the water down to the bottom.

John, realising that he was finding it much easier to move in his spacesuit, even after only 24 hours in zero gravity, floated down beside the dehumidifier that was drying out the main monitor console. He pulled out the bucket and checked its contents. "Mine's only about quarter full," he announced.

"So's mine." Alan was emptying the dehumidifier by the life-support console.

"And this one's got even less." Scott replaced the bucket beneath the main unit in the centre of the control room. "And I've just checked the power hub and that's almost dried out too. Won't be long and we'll be able to start slowly injecting some life back into this place."

"Starting with the heaters?" Alan suggested. "I know it's not sub-zero any longer, but it still feels cold enough to keep a penguin happy." He rubbed his gloved hands together.

"I'd prefer that we start with the lights," John admitted. "Then we can see what we're doing."

Scott nodded. "I'm with John." He ran his hand through his hair and, with no gravity to tell it to fall back down again, it remained sticking upwards. "Where shall we dry out next?" He looked at John.

"Alan's probably expecting me to say the astrodome so that I can get the telescope functioning again," John replied, "but I think the duplicate control room should be our next priority, at least until we know that this one's operational. Hopefully between the two centres we should be able to cobble together one fully functioning unit. Then the living quarters; it's a little cramped for the three of us in Thunderbird Three. _And then_ the astrodome."

"You know Thunderbird Five better than anyone," Scott grinned. "So up here, you're the boss."

"Thanks. In that case, my first order is that we move these dehumidifiers into the duplicate control room." John realised that only one of his brothers was listening to him.

Alan was standing at one of Thunderbird Five's windows, looking wistfully down to Earth. Clearly he was thousands of kilometres away, probably somewhere in the vicinity of the laboratory on Tracy Island. He didn't respond to John's first call. Or the second.

Scott winked at John. "I think the kid's homesick."

Alan, not hearing the comment, made no response.

"Alan," John tried again. "Hey! Alan!"

"Huh?" Alan finally looked around. "What?"

John floated over so he was at his little brother's side. "Are you okay? You were miles away."

Alan sighed. "Yeah."

"You're missing Tin-Tin?"

Alan looked back out the window so he didn't have to face his brothers. "Maybe a little." He attempted an unconcerned shrug.

"Cheer up," Scott advised. "With any luck we'll be home again before the week's over." He looked out the window himself, towards the Earth's horizon. "I wonder how Father's getting on."

"Once we've got the radio operational, we'll be able to call him up and find out." Alan pushed away from the window. "So, what are we doing next to get things dried out?"

"John wants to do the duplicate control room, right, John?"

John had been thinking about his father. Thoughts of his father had led to wondering about how Tracy Industries was doing. Curiosity about Tracy Industries and his father had got him contemplating Emma. Were she and his father working together okay? Was she happy with her new responsibilities…? Was she missing him…?

"John!"

"Huh? What?"

"Where were you, Johnny?" Alan asked.

"Just thinking about Dad and the business," John admitted. That wasn't, he told himself, a lie. "I hope he's coping okay."

"Especially since Kyrano will be on Tracy Island by now," Alan added. "Dad's going to be all alone."

"He's still got his nurse and the new cook," Scott reminded them.

"But they're not family," Alan corrected. "It's not the same."

-I-R-

-F-A-B-

Things weren't the same. Nurse Sara was sharing a cup of coffee and a gossip with the new cook, Martha.

"Tell me about Mr Tracy," Martha requested, as she scattered flour on the bench top.

Sara took a sip of her coffee. "What do you want to know? Obviously I can't tell you anything medical, because of patient confidentiality."

"He's had a stroke, hasn't he?" Martha asked, seemingly ignoring the nurse's comment. "That's why he needs you?"

This was common knowledge, even if Jeff's condition hadn't been obvious to anyone who met him, so Sara had no qualms in confirming the diagnosis. "That's right."

"Is it true he used to be an astronaut?"

"Yes, although you wouldn't think so to look at this place. All the memorabilia relating to that side of his life is packed away in storage. His mother showed it to me once before she died. If he does talk about it, he gets depressed. It's like he can't reconcile his present condition with the man he was."

"He seems a nice man. A little hard to understand though."

"He's a lovely man," Sara confirmed, "when he's not frustrated. And as time goes by you'll find it easier to understand what he's saying. His secretary…"

"That's Emma?"

"Yes, that's right. She only met him ten days ago, and she's already starting to understand him."

"Did his old secretary leave him because of Doomsday?"

"No. Emma used to be secretary to John, Mr Tracy's second son. John took over Tracy Industries when Mr Tracy had the stroke." Sara pursed her lips together in disapproval.

"Don't you like him?" Martha asked, seeing the nurse's frown.

"I used to. I used to like all of Mr Tracy's sons. But I've lost respect for them now."

"Lost respect?" Martha queried.

"Like I said I used to like John. Mr Tracy built up the business and, even though his stroke meant he no longer took an active role in the company, John would still discuss aspects of it with him. It was never anything that would cause his father stress, or tire him unnecessarily; but it made Mr Tracy feel that his input was still valued. And that did him good. It gave him an interest outside this house."

"Doesn't he leave very often?"

"Hardly ever. Not even for medical appointments. When you're a billionaire, you expect your doctors to come to you."

Martha's eyes widened. "Is he really a billionaire?"

"From what I understand; yes, he is. And his sons never behaved like they were the sons of a billionaire. They all had their own jobs… And they all seemed so kind and caring towards Mr Tracy. Before Doomsday hardly a day would go by without one or more of them ringing up to see how their father was and telling him about what was happening in their lives. We'd usually see at least one of them once a week."

"I haven't met them yet, have I?"

"No." Sara's frown deepened. "And from what I understand you won't either."

Martha tossed the ball of dough onto the bench and started kneading. "Why not?"

"So many men their age would get lost in their own lives and forget that their father was an invalid, but not them. That was until Doomsday was announced. Apparently before Mr Tracy had his stroke, they lived it up on his tropical paradise island. You know the type of thing: wine, women and song. And now that they know Doomsday's going to happen, they've all decided to throw in their jobs and end their days living that lifestyle again."

Martha couldn't imagine what work five playboys would be happy doing, even if one of them appeared to have developed some sense of responsibility and had managed to run a successful multi-national corporation. "What jobs did they have before Doomsday?"

"Let's see…" Sara thought. "The eldest is Scott; he's a test pilot for one of the Tracy companies. I suppose they pretend to employ him to please the owner of the company, and he gives the illusion that he's actually in meaningful employment while he joyrides around all day… Next… is John. The third one… I think… is Virgil. He's an artist."

"Artist?"

"A painter… He's changed over the years. He seemed reasonably sensible at first but has got sucked into the underbelly of the artistic world. He now has weird blue hair and piercings all over him…" Sara paused as she realised something. "Although, thinking about it, the last time I saw him he'd lost them all and I don't remember seeing any scars..." She shrugged away the mystery. "The fourth son is Gordon. He says he's some kind of underwater researcher. He married a horrible woman that Mr Tracy absolutely hates, and I don't blame him. She patronises Mr Tracy, and treats me like dirt. He's always taken a turn for the worse after she's visited… The youngest son is Alan. He's a race car driver and you know what they're like."

Martha nodded. She'd heard all about those competitive drivers with their fast cars, faster women, and out of control lives. She decided that she didn't like the sound of Jeff Tracy's sons. "Is the fourth one the only one that's married?"

"Oh, no. Alan married Mr Kyrano's daughter."

"Mr Kyrano? That was the man I replaced? The one who interviewed me? But he seemed so quiet!"

"He is. And that's another reason why I don't like Mr Tracy's sons. It's because they've taken Mr Kyrano to look after them while they relax and enjoy themselves! Now, don't get me wrong, Martha, I'm glad you're here," Sara added hastily. "Mr Kyrano was a lovely man; but he was also a very reserved, private individual, and he wasn't someone you could have a conversation with. But he was Mr Tracy's friend, maybe his only friend, and those five boys took him away leaving their father alone!"

Martha stopped kneading and stared at the nurse. "That's awful!"

"I know! And to think I used to think how wonderful they all were. And Mr Tracy thought that they were wonderful too. Not that he'd try to show it. He'd pretend that he was all gruff and stern when they were here, but he was always in better spirits and much brighter after they'd gone. He'd tell me all about what they'd been up to. He was really proud of them. And then they go and treat him like this! John's just dumped all the responsibilities and stresses associated with running a multi-national conglomerate in Mr Tracy's lap and left him to it! He's been in a bad mood ever since."

There was a roar from elsewhere in the house.

"See what I mean… I'd better go see what he wants." Sara slipped off her stool and took a final sip of her coffee.

There was another roar.

"Gotta go!" Sara replaced the cup on its saucer and hurried out the door.

Martha, deciding that she didn't like Jeff Tracy's sons much either, returned to her kneading.

-I-R-

-F-A-B-

Jeff's morning had started like every other morning. He'd suffered the indignantly of having a nurse help him get out of bed, get washed and dressed, and had eaten his breakfast alone. This new woman, Martha, was a good cook, but even after one day he was already missing Kyrano's quiet presence. It was only the knowledge that his friend was caring for his sons as they worked to save the world that kept him from falling into a deep depression.

That and anticipation of the day's activities.

After the morning's routine, including a vigorous physiotherapy session to try to increase the mobility and strength of his atrophied limbs, he approached his desk with an eagerness that he hadn't felt in years. He'd forgotten how much he'd enjoyed the challenge of running a large corporation. It was like a giant chess game where the smallest move had to be analysed and considered before being put into play, and where lots of those little moves led towards the grand prize.

Emma had been a big help. Now that she was gaining confidence and starting to relax around him, they were becoming more of a team. There was still the language barrier; a frustration that sometimes boiled over, but it was something that they were slowly, but surely, overcoming.

Jeff wheeled himself behind the desk, and locked the hoverchair into position. The sight of the videophone made him uneasy. It had been ten days since his sons had visited, and in that time he'd heard from each of them only once, and the last call had been three days ago. They'd all promised that they'd phone more often, but Jeff knew that they had a lot of work to do in a short space of time and that ringing their father would be a low priority. He was glad that he'd insisted that Kyrano go and stay with them, because he knew that his friend would honour his commitment to phone at least once a day.

Emma had worked late last night and a neat pile of folders was stacked on his desk. It wasn't really that she'd worked 'late'; more that Jeff, unused to working so hard, had exhausted himself (yet again) and retired to bed in the late-afternoon, leaving her to carry on 'running the company' as he'd joked before leaving. He had no qualms about leaving her in charge, even though in doing so he annoyed himself with his own frailties. Emma had shown time and time again that she was highly competent, extremely knowledgeable about the company, and had the patience of a saint as she dealt with a man whose expectations frequently exceeded his capabilities. Jeff could understand why John had relied on her so heavily… And why his son was so attracted to her.

In the mornings Emma would also call into the office to get the necessary files for the day and have a briefing with Robert before she would drive out to Jeff's home. This gave Jeff the time to review yesterday's decisions and consider today's challenges before they both settled down to a day's work.

He slid the top file off the pile and opened it. This was a simple document, authorising the exploration of the purchase of some land. The world might think that the planet was going to end in less than four months, but Jeff knew that there was a slim glimmer of hope that life would return to normal, and he wanted Tracy Industries to be on a good footing when it did.

He reached out for a pen to sign the authorisation, but his mind, yet again, overestimated his body's abilities. He found his fingers closing around a pen that his arm hadn't even reached yet. He cursed himself, and concentrated on telling his muscles to extend further and his fingers to pick up the pen, not fresh air. This major task successfully completed, he used his weaker left hand to straighten the pen in his right, and went to sign his name at the bottom of the document.

The pen fell out of his hand.

Frustration overwhelmed him. He was a grown man, unable to even hold a pen long enough to sign his name! This had gone on for far too long!

"_Sara!"_

He tried to pick up the pen again, but his left arm, not being strong enough to be able to hold its own weight for any length of time, slid off the desk, taking the file with it. Papers ended up strewn across the floor.

"_Sara!"_ he yelled again. _"Where are you?!"_

The nurse arrived one minute later, slightly breathless at having run from wherever it was in the house that she'd been hiding. "Yes, Mr Tracy?"

She smelt of coffee and there was a brown stain on her top. _"Your blouse is dirty,"_ Jeff growled.

"Oh!" Sara looked down and felt the stain. It was still damp. "I'm sorry. I was telling Martha about how the household works."

"_You mean you were gossiping about me!"_

"Uh…" Unable to deny that fact without lying, the nurse picked up the dropped documents. "What can I do for you, Mr Tracy?"

"_You can get hold of that doctor!"_

"Aren't you feeling well?" Sara saw a way of making amends for not being as prompt as he'd expected. "Can I get you something?"

"_Just get that neurologist on the phone!"_

"Of course…" Sara spun the videophone around so that it was facing her. "Ah… Which one?"

"_That one who said that he'd like me to consider trying that experimental treatment!"_

Sara stared at her boss. "Was that the one that you said was only interested in your taking part because you could afford to pay all the expenses; and that if you died during the operation he could brush it off by saying that you were too old to start with?"

"_That's him. What's his name?"_

Sara started going through the address book for the required number. "Dr Alex Cooper. Are you sure you want me to call him?"

"_Call__ him."_

Sara found the number in the book. "What do you want me to tell him?"

"_Tell him that I want to see him right away."_

"Why?"

Jeff managed to avoid sarcasm. _"I want to hear more about this experimental treatment. I want to know everything. Details of trials, peer reviews, results, failures… Everything! He may have found his guinea pig…"_

"But you said that that you wouldn't be their guinea pig for all the tea in China!"

"_Just call him," _Jeff said through gritted teeth. He was getting tired of the nurse's continual questions._ "And whatever you do, don't breathe a word about this to my sons."_

Sara stiffened. She wouldn't have given Jeff Tracy's sons the time of day, let alone the courtesy of knowing that their father seemed to finally have decided to have taken the initiative to do something about his condition. "I won't."

Jeff heard the coldness in her voice. _"And don't let me ever hear you say anything against them either,"_ he warned. _"They're fine men: each and every one of them."_

"If you say so, Mr Tracy."

"_I do say so! And don't you forget it!"_

Stung by his accusatory tone, Sara turned back to the phone and started dialling.

Jeff scowled at the files on his desk. _"At least I know someone who likes tea,"_ he muttered.

Sara looked at him. "Mr Tracy?"

"_Just call that number!"_

-I-R-

-F-A-B-

Above the deepest point in the world's oceans, Parker was bent over the starboard rail of his mistress' yacht. Not because he was feeling seasick, although the seas were more than a little choppy as Typhoon Ita, now being described in official circles as a tropical storm, churned up the western Pacific Ocean. He lifted a portable radio to his lips. "H-I can't see h-it, m'Lady."

"Oh, dear, how tiresome," Lady Penelope sighed, her voice as clear as if she was only metres away, which she was. "I do hope we haven't lost it. Gordon said that there was only one still in working condition. I should so hate to let the poor boy down."

"H-I should think that 'e'd 'ate h-it too," Parker agreed. "'E seems h-a bit stressed by the 'ole thing… 'Ang on…" He'd spied something floating into the water. "No. H-it's a bit of seaweed."

Lady Penelope, using what looked like a pair of binoculars, peered into the turbulent waters; the waves forming walls of water over a metre high. The probe could be only metres away and hidden by the ever changing horizon. "We haven't been pushed off course, have we?"

"Lemmee check…" Parker examined a computer screen. "Nope. George h-is still followin' the same path the probe should be taking."

"We are basing that assumption on information that is at least two decades old," Lady Penelope reminded him. "Doomsday could have caused a rock fall in the Challenger Deep that has forced the probe to change course."

"We're still getting h-a signal," Parker confirmed. "So h-at least that bit's not broke."

From her position on the port rail, Lady Penelope scanned the cloudy waters. There was nothing serene about the Pacific today, and she was starting to feel a bit squeamish herself; not from the irregular rolling motion of FAB2, but the thought that they might be about to let International Rescue down when the organisation needed them more than ever.

A wave washed over the bow of the yacht and drenched their feet. They ignored the discomfort and continued gazing out over the chaotic waters. FAB2 adjusted her orientation, keeping her bow pointed into the winds. Another wave broke over the deck.

Parker braced himself against the water sucking at his legs as it raced back to its natural environment. "Tropical storm, my foot! H-It seems to be getting' worse, m'Lady, not better."

"It does indeed," Lady Penelope agreed. "We may have to consider retreating to the safety of the cabin soon."

But neither of them moved from their lookout positions.

A monster wave reared up over the front of the palatial yacht, and crashed down upon the fore deck. It smashed against Parker's legs with the force of a Lions rugby team forward's tackle. With no chance of standing, he was thrown against the rail, and it was only his safety harness that prevented him from going overboard.

When things had subsided, relatively speaking, he struggled back to his feet; feeling his sodden uniform heavy on his bruised limbs. "H-I'm getting' too old for this game," he grumbled as he took a step backwards. He tripped over something, grabbing at the rail again so he wouldn't end up flat on his back. This was one of those infrequent moments when his thoughts turned to the idea of retiring to some nice, safe little haven somewhere, far away from all the stresses and dangers that went with working for 'er Ladyship. At those moments it was only the knowledge that at least he wasn't a crippled shadow of his former self like Jeff Tracy, which stopped him from writing out his letter of resignation.

He looked down at what had tripped him.

"Well, H-I'll be h-a monkey's uncle!"

"What was that, Parker? Have you found the probe?"

"No, m'Lady." Parker grinned as he examined the metre long, bright yellow, cylindrical object that rocked gently against the cabin bulkhead; its International Rescue logo proudly displayed above the camera in its nose. If he hadn't known better he would have thought that it had been gently placed there by an invisible crew. "Mister Gordon's probe 'as found h-us."

-I-R-

-F-A-B-

In the darkened circular chamber that was Thunderbird Five's control room, three men stood, the lights from their headlamps lighting up the various pieces of equipment.

"Well..." Scott looked around, the light from his headlight illuminating Thunderbird Five's ice free controls. "I think she's as warm and dry as we're going to get her. We've replaced her batteries and we know that the solar panels are charging them. All that remains to do is turn her on again." He turned to the taller of his two companions. "Do you want to do the honours, John?"

John was feeling a kind of backward déjà vu. Seven years ago he'd stood here and had extinguished the life out of his Thunderbird. At the time he'd thought that his six month absence from the satellite would have meant that shutting her down would have simply been a matter of entering the codes and throwing the switches to turn her off. Instead he'd felt like he was euthanising a close member of his family. Scott had offered to do the deed, but when the time came, John had realised that it was his duty and his alone. He knew he was anthropomorphising bits of metal and electronics, but he'd still felt that he owed this final dignity to Thunderbird Five. To let someone else shut her down seemed traitorous to the craft after all the years that she'd sustained and protected him. And so he'd done what had needed to be done, and then grieved throughout the trip home and for many days afterwards. None of his brothers had commented on his introverted mood: they were too busy grieving for their own Thunderbirds to notice.

And now here he was; about to administer CPR (Computer Programmed Revival) to Thunderbird Five.

He should be happy. He should be eager to enter those codes and flick those switches. He should be waiting expectantly for that joyous hum that would herald the reawakening of his Thunderbird.

Instead his hands were sweaty, his mouth was dry, and he was almost dreading touching those buttons. What if he wasn't about to bring Thunderbird Five back to life? What if she only partially awakened; crippled and useless? What if she was going to be like him; the weak link in International Rescue's chain?

The time for questions was over.

Floating over the console, he flicked the switch and entered the first code. Then he scanned his palm print before entering a secondary code. A small amber button lit up and he pushed that before entering the third and final code. A small green button was illuminated and, after the briefest of pauses, he pressed it, before scanning his palm print again.

Thunderbird Five didn't haul herself back into wakefulness. She didn't drag herself grudgingly out of the deep slumber she'd been enduring for the last seven years. Her lights didn't ebb and stutter as she tested all the circuits and decided what was functional and what wasn't.

Instead Thunderbird Five burst into life as if to say, "Right! I'm ready. What are you guys waiting for? Let's get this show on the road!"

John turned back to his brothers, his smile almost splitting his face in two. "I think we're in business."

_To be continued…_


	9. Chapter 9 - Discoveries

**Chapter Nine: Discoveries**

Lady Penelope and Parker stood on the pier and surveyed the neat little houseboat moored there.

"We could've h-asked Mister Gordon for 'is key," Parker suggested.

"We could," Lady Penelope agreed, "except that Alan requested that we tell no one of his suspicions. Gordon may not have wished us to do this investigation into his soon-to-be-ex-wife."

"H-I would've thought that 'e'd be glad of the 'elp."

"I'm of the opinion that he wants the whole affair to go away, and would rather that we didn't attempt to drag it out through the courts… Are you sure that Marina won't return any time soon?"

Parker checked the receiver in his hand. "That 'omin' device we planted on 'er car h-is miles h-away, and h-it don't look like h-it's gonna be moving any time soon."

"Good. It would be tiresome to be interrupted in our work. Lead on, Parker."

Parker led the way across the gangplank and onto the houseboat. He pretended to ring the doorbell as he examined the lock. "Looks h-a nice h-easy number. H-I would've thought Mister Gordon would've taken more care."

"Gordon probably thought that he no longer had the need of top of the range security systems. Of course, the whole houseboat may be alarmed."

Parker had placed a small electronic device beside the lock. "H-It h-is." A few key presses later... "At least h-it was..." The door swung open and he stepped inside. "Lummee!"

Lady Penelope followed him.

It was like stepping into a furnace, and her first reaction was to be repulsed by the scene before her. She'd never visited Gordon's home of the last seven years, and never in her wildest dreams had she imagined it to be anything like this.

"H-A bit h-overpowering, ain't she," Parker stated as he indicated the fiery red, orange and yellow ruffles that seemed to blossom anywhere.

This was not how Lady Penelope expected one of the masculine Tracy boys to furnish his home and she suppressed an almost overwhelming desire to call in her favourite interior designer. "Gordon's the most laid back of the Tracys, but even so…" she gave a refined shudder.

"'Ow did 'e stand h-it?"

"I don't know, Parker." Lady Penelope moved around the room examining the furnishings. "Marina bored me for simply hours at one of the Tracys' parties by explaining how she was 'improving' the décor. She explained how she was trying to achieve the juxtaposition between fire and water. I believe that she was trying to impress on me that she was an innovative interior designer in the hopes that I might bless her with my patronage."

"H-And what do you think now that you've seen 'er work?"

Lady Penelope stared at him with a grim expression on her pretty face. "That we need to do all we can to get Gordon out of this marriage."

Parker pushed back the flame-red lace wall hanging, revealing a white wall with blue trim and a replica life preserver. "Poor fella made h-an effort… Not that h-it did 'im much good."

Lady Penelope pulled herself together. They already knew of Marina's cheap tastes and lack of refinement. They were here to discover what the woman had chosen not to reveal to her husband's friends. "I would like you to make a thorough search of the living area while I'll examine the bedroom."

"Yes, m'Lady."

Lady Penelope stood at the doorway to the bedroom and took in the scene. The sight of two single beds seemed somewhat pathetic in the room of a couple who'd been married less than a year, and there was no difficulty telling the ownership of each bed. Marina's had the expected red and yellow ruffles, while Gordon's duvet was a more practical nautical-navy and white. "Now," she mused, "just where would a girl hide her secrets?"

She began to search, carefully and methodically. She started with pulling back the pillow and checking that nothing was concealed there. Then she felt under the mattress, before turning her attention to the drawers and cupboards. Just under half were filled with the sort of items that she found in her own drawers at home, albeit of lower quality. The others contained Gordon's belongings, or else were simply empty.

She regarded a drawer of masculine underclothes with distaste. There wasn't a lot of logic in the idea of Marina hiding things in Gordon's drawers, but Lady Penelope was always thorough and made a point of never leaving any stones unturned. She also did not like betraying Gordon. If these had been the belongings of a stranger, she would have felt no qualms searching through them. But now she felt like an intruder. This was a stupid, sentimental way to feel, but these belonged to a close friend...

"Parker!"

The butler stuck his head through the bedroom door. "Yes, m'Lady?"

"Would you search through Gordon's clothes? I am quite sure that if he were aware what we were doing he would rather you did it than I."

Making no comment about his mistress' uncharacteristic reticence, Parker made a quick and efficient search of the drawers. "Neither of them seem to be 'iding h-anything in there."

"No…" Lady Penelope was examining a waste paper basket, which she put down. "Did you notice anything odd about the drawers?"

"Odd? Can't say H-I did."

"I searched Marina's and they are not as full as I might have expected. Almost as if, like Gordon, she has deserted her home..."

"'Cept she's giving the impression she's coming back?" Parker hypothesised. He checked the homing receiver. "She ain't moved. Maybe she's shifted out into this h-other place?"

"Maybe... Have you discovered anything of interest?"

"Not really," he admitted. "She likes 'er fruit juice. There's bottles and bottles h-in the recyclin'. And she likes reading cheap romances. There's a 'ole shelf of 'em in there." He jerked his thumb in the direction of the living area. "But what's really h-interesting h-is some notebooks on the shelves."

Lady Penelope spun to face him, her eyes alive with interest. "Notebooks?"

"Yeah. The funny thing is, they h-all look well thumbed like, as h-if they've been used, but they're h-all h-empty."

"Empty?"

"Yeah. D'ya want to 'ave a look?"

"I do indeed, Parker."

Parker showed the way to the bookshelf and pointed out the irregular line of notebooks. Clearly Marina wasn't a neat freak. "That's the way H-I found 'em," he explained. "I used the laser line to make sure H-I put 'em back into place." He switched the laser line on, and Lady Penelope removed one of the notebooks.

She carried it over to the light. "I see what you mean by well thumbed." She examined the notebooks at an angle. "The pages appear to have been written on."

"You think she used 'em to lean h-on when she wrote on a blank page?"

"No… I think she'd written in these books themselves?"

"Using h-invisible h-ink?"

"Probably. The question is which type?"

"H-I can't see a h-air'ead like Marina using one of the more h-exclusive ones, such h-as you'd use, m'Lady," Parker confided. "Where'd she get 'er 'ands on it?"

"Exactly," Lady Penelope agreed. "It would have to be something readily accessible."

"Lemon juice?"

"Not always the easiest to obtain…" Lady Penelope had an idea. "What type of juice bottles were they?"

Parker shook his head. "Sorry to burst yer bubble, m'Lady, but they weren't lemon."

"There are other, er, shall we say more earthy, but easily accessible media."

Parker snuffled a laugh. "I can't see 'er soiling 'er 'ands."

"No, neither can I," Lady Penelope admitted. "Maybe we're according Marina with more intelligence than she deserves."

"M'Lady?"

"Can you see her making her own invisible ink?"

"No."

"Exactly." Lady Penelope was rifling through a cup on the desk beside the bookshelf. "If we are going to think like Marina, we are going to have to think of the obvious… Ah!" She pulled a pen out of the cup. It looked relatively full of ink, but the label on the side had been worn away. "Where's my notebook?"

As she rummaged through her handbag Parker took the opportunity to examine his mistress's find. "Looks like h-a normal pen to me."

"And, if I am correct, it behaves like a normal pen." Lady Penelope accepted it back and signed _Lady Penelope Creighton-Ward_ on her pad.

"Does h-it fade h-in time?" Parker asked.

"If you give it a little help." Lady Penelope placed the notebook on the desk and rubbed the page. Her signature disappeared.

Parker was impressed by the demonstration. "Ow'd you do that?"

"Friction," Lady Penelope replied. "This is a thermo-sensitive gel ink pen. The heat created when you rub the paper causes the ink to disappear."

"H-And to make it reappear you cool h-it down again?" he guessed.

"Yes. I believe that you have to cool it to minus 20 degrees Celsius."

Parker looked at the row of notebooks; then he checked the homing receiver. "She ain't moved yet. But look h-at 'em all, m'Lady. H-It'll take 'ours to cool all those books h-in the freezer, h-and then re'eat them so she doesn't know we've been 'ere."

"Then we shall stop talking and make a start," Lady Penelope declared. She reached back into her bag and retrieved two further objects. "Put the books in the refrigerator, Parker. When they have cooled enough to reveal their contents you can photograph them and I'll," she held aloft something that looked like a tiny hair dryer, "warm them up again."

"What h-is that?" Parker asked, nodding in the direction of the 'hair dryer' as he started loading the notebooks into the ice compartment of the refrigerator.

"A hair dryer."

"H-Ask h-a stupid question," he muttered.

Lady Penelope responded with a laugh. "A girl always tries to look her best, and being this close to water I didn't like to take any chances."

"H-Of course."

While they waited for the notebooks to chill, Lady Penelope took the opportunity to continue examining the houseboat. "If you asked me to guess which of the Tracys dwelt here, I should not have guessed Gordon. There is no humour in the place."

"H-I know what you mean, m'Lady. That Marina's taken h-over h-everything."

"Not quite everything." Lady Penelope pointed to a small square on the wall that appeared to have escaped Marina's touch. "Do you suppose that's where Gordon displayed his medal?"

"H-If h-it was, I 'ope 'e 'ad the good sense to take h-it with 'im. H-I wouldn't put h-it past 'er to sell h-it."

"I'm afraid to say, Parker, that I totally agree with you." Lady Penelope opened the door of the refrigerator. "Let us see what Marina has to say."

They worked diligently for what seemed to be hours; until the last of Marina's notebooks was lined up next to its brethren in the same untidy state that they'd been in when they started.

"Didya 'appen to read h-any h-of h-it?" Parker asked, as he cast his burglar's eye around the room to ensure that nothing was out of place. He shifted a figurine a fraction of a millimetre.

Lady Penelope replaced the camera and hair dryer back into her bag. "Enough to think that there may be some interesting reading contained in these books."

Parker checked the homing device receiver. "She's on the move, m'Lady."

"She has timed it perfectly," Lady Penelope smiled. "Let us depart, Parker."

As the Rolls Royce rolled out of the carpark, a scarlet convertible drove in. Marina's eyes widened at the sight of the shocking pink car. "Some people have no class," she sniffed.

-I-R-

-F-A-B-

It was late when Kyrano dialled the videophone; the optimum time for his caller to speak to him. He'd made this same call at the same time each day and he knew it would be a while before the person at the other end would be able to answer. He was a patient man, and he would have to draw on this patience to ensure that this conversation went smoothly.

At last a face appeared on the phone. He was treated to a lopsided smile. _"Hello, Kyrano."_

Kyrano smiled in return. "Hello, Mr Tracy. Has it been a good day?"

"_It has, and I think we've achieved plenty. Have you survived the first week of mayhem?"_

Kyrano bowed his head. "There is not so much mayhem as quiet optimism," he recited. "Your sons returned from Thunderbird Five today. They report that all the equipment is working well. Now they hope to be able to concentrate on repairing the other Thunderbirds."

Jeff let out a sigh of relief. _"I'm glad to hear that. I had my doubts that they would be able to get operational in time when they told me about the damage to the craft. How are the boys?"_

"They are all well. They ask me to tell them how you are each morning."

"_I wish they wouldn't worry about me,"_ Jeff growled. _"I'm all right. I'm more worried about them."_

"I worry too. They are working hard; perhaps too hard. I only sometimes see Mister Virgil at mealtimes. He is always working on Thunderbird Two."

"_He won't be able to fly her if he doesn't look after himself."_

"I tell him this. I tell them all, but they will not listen. His brothers, Mister Brains, and my Tin-Tin are just as bad."

"_That's what worries me. I'm scared that they'll overdo it and burn out. Or worse!"_

"That is my concern. There is much at stake."

"_You've got to make them realise they won't be able to do anything if they make themselves sick."_

"I tell them this. I even try to drag them to the meal table if I do not think they have had adequate sustenance or rest. But," here Kyrano offered a wry smile, "there is little I can do when they have abseiled halfway down a Thunderbird and are beyond my reach."

Jeff couldn't find any humour in the situation._ "They should listen to you. I not only asked you to go to Tracy Island to be my eyes and ears, but also to be my voice. If you think someone needs to slow down and they don't listen to you then call me and I'll talk to them."_

Kyrano nodded. "I will remember."

Jeff let out a breath and tried to turn his attention to less worrisome thoughts. _"Has Virgil cut his hair yet?"_

Kyrano shook his head. "Nor has he shaven."

"_Not sha..."_ Jeff pulled himself up short. _"I suppose I shouldn't worry about a triviality like that, not with everything else we've got to deal with. Has Gordon heard anything more about the divorce?"_

Kyrano shook his head again. "No."

"_How's it affecting him?"_

Kyrano hesitated. He didn't want to upset his friend unnecessarily, but he'd promised him a full report. "He seems anxious. I believe that he is not sleeping."

Jeff's brow creased. _"Has he mentioned it to Brains?"_

"We have moved one of the slow-wave sleep generators to his room. We are hopeful that that will help."

"_That's good. Let me know if it works. How's John? Did he lose much weight in space?"_

This time Kyrano nodded. "He jokes that he can now fit into his exercise clothing, so he can regain the muscle tone that he lost in space, so he can exercise to lose the fat that he still carries."

Jeff chuckled. _"Tell him not to worry about the company. He's got a gem in Emma and we're getting on well."_

"He will be pleased to hear that."

"I'll bet," Jeff thought. _"How's Scott coping with running everything?"_

"He rules with a bar of iron buried beneath a mattress of velvet. But..."

"_But?"_

Kyrano frowned. While he'd waited to make this call he'd debated whether or not he should broach this subject. He decided that the Tracy patriarch would want to know. "He appears less sure of himself and less trusting of the others."

"_Scott?!"_

"Yes. He questions all decisions he makes and double-checks all the work of his brothers."

"_Any ideas why?"_

"No."

"_Well, keep your ear to the ground and let me know if you hear anything,"_ Jeff requested. _"Did Alan enjoy his first flight in Thunderbird Three?"_

Kyrano offered a benign smile. "I do not know if the enthusiasm he showed upon his return was a result of the flight or meeting my daughter again."

"_Knowing Alan, it'll be a big helping of both... Talking about Tin-Tin, is she enjoying the new challenge?"_

"She is working hard, and it is making her tired, but she is happy."

"_Good. And how'z Brains?"_

"Mister Brains has not changed. He still forgets that he is human and must eat."

Jeff laughed out loud.

"How is the new cook?" Kyrano enquired, hiding his concerns behind his calm method of speech. His twin loyalties to his friend and to International Rescue had been tested in coming here, and it had only been because Jeff had asked him personally that he had agreed. He knew beyond doubt that none of his friend's sons would have thought of asking him to leave their father.

But Jeff was well aware that those concerns existed. _"Adecwate, bud not up to your s'andard'."_

"And the gardener?"

"_I could uz the zame anza that I di' fa Marda." _Kyrano noted that Jeff's speech was becoming harder to understand. "_I don' thin' she'll be spryin' weed k'ller aroun' reglessy, I dou't that yo' plan' will thri' as well as th' do unda your gare."_

Kyrano grunted his approval. "Are you tired, Mr Tracy?"

Jeff looked annoyed. _"Wad a 'm z fed up 'n frustra'ed with thi body v mine. I 'vy you, m' frien'."_

"You are tired. I shall call you again tomorrow."

"'_m zwy, Gyrina. I…"_ Jeff, beyond annoyed, growled in frustration.

"I shall tell your sons that you are well and that you expect them to ensure that they are the same."

Jeff nodded. He barely appeared to have the strength to lift his head before letting it drop. _"Dank…"_

"Good bye, Mr Tracy."

-I-R-

-F-A-B-

"Would you like a hand, Virgil?"

Virgil smiled at Scott. "I'd love one. The CNC guillotine keeps jamming."

"Have you set it up correctly?"

A slight frown of annoyance clouded Virgil's smile, but his voice remained pleasant. "I'm pretty sure I have, but you're welcome to check it." He watched as Scott read the plans and ran through the CNC guillotine's checklist. "I actually think that something's jammed in the works. It was operating perfectly yesterday."

Scott grunted and pushed the start button. The guillotine groaned, attempted to pick up a piece of metal, and then ground to a halt. There was a clunking sound as the machine shut itself down.

Virgil checked his watch. Then he frowned before turning back to the machine. "Can you give me a hand to open this up?"

Reaching for the off switch to remove the power connection, he heard a voice behind him. "Make sure you switch it off first."

Virgil ground his teeth together to bite back the retort that was waiting to burst forth.

Together they unscrewed a panel and exposed the CNC cutter's interior workings. Virgil got two torches and handed one to his brother. "Can you see anything?"

Scott, his head obliterating Virgil's view, was peering into the machine. "This might be out of alignment..." He reached inside and nudged a component and they heard that clunking sound again.

Virgil checked his watch.

Scott shot Virgil a curious look. "Is it moving freely now?"

Virgil pushed at the feed unit. "No."

Scott adjusted something else. There was another clunk.

Virgil started, raised his arm, saw Scott watching him, and lowered it again.

"What's wrong with you? You're all jumpy."

"Uh..." Virgil indicated the watch. "Gordon said he might want my help and I don't want to miss his call..." He gave an unconvincing grin. "Let me have a look in there."

Scott stared at him in a way that said he wasn't sure about all this, but stood back. Virgil shone his torch inside. "It all looks oka... Hold on! I think I see something." He pulled his head out of the machine and went around the back. "Help me with this." They pulled another panel off the back of the guillotine and Virgil lay down on the floor, shining his torch inside. "Can you get me an adjustable face spanner wrench?"

Scott selected the tool "Here."

"Thanks." Virgil reached back inside the CNC machine and a piece of metal fell free, making a clunking noise. As if it were echoing the sound his watch started beeping and he sat up suddenly, banging his head on the inside of the guillotine. "Ow!"

"Are you all right?"

"Yeah. Ah... Gordon's calling me."

"So I hear..."

"I'll go and see what he wants. Back soon..." Virgil took off at a run; barrelling into Thunderbird Four's bay. "Are you all right!"

Gordon looked surprised at the speedy entrance. "Yeah. Course I am."

"Are you sure?!"

"I just wanted some help. You didn't have to panic, Virg."

"Panic! I thought you were having another attack." Virgil took a breath to get his nerves back under control. "I've just about brained myself on the guillotine trying to get here to help you!" He rubbed his sore head.

Gordon looked chastened. "I'm sorry, but I'm okay. You don't need to worry about me 24 hours a day."

"I might not have to, but I do. It would be a lot easier on my nerves if we just told someone else what happened."

Gordon looked alarmed. "You said you wouldn't!"

"I know I did, but the CNC guillotine had a jam and every time we moved the feeder it would make a noise. The pitch was exactly the same as my watch alarm." Virgil made a hopeless gesture. "I've been on edge all afternoon, thinking that it was you calling me."

"I thought something was wrong." Both men turned at Scott's voice. "So, what is it?"

"Nothing." Gordon treated his eldest brother to an ingratiating grin. "Virgil's in a hurry to get back to his machine and I'm holding him up. Now that you're here you can give us both a hand and he'll be back with Thunderbird Two in no time. Right, Virg?"

"Uh... Yeah... Right." Virgil agreed.

He got the quizzical look again. "You're working on installing the Hexorhombi, Gordon?" Scott asked.

"Yes. I just need a hand getting started."

"Okay."

Virgil watched as Scott marched away towards the neat stack of hexagonal shaped honeycombs. _"Tell him,"_ he mouthed.

Gordon shook his head._ "No!"_

"_Yes!"_

Scott turned back to face his brothers. "Are you two going to help, or am I going to do this all by myself?"

"We're helping," Gordon told him. "Right, Virgil?"

Virgil made the hopeless gesture again and grabbed a sheet of Hexorhombi.

-I-R-

-F-A-B-

Tin-Tin examined the laboratory's calendar and frowned.

Brains blinked owlishly at her. "Is s-something wrong?"

His assistant let the calendar fall back against the wall and smiled at him. "No, Brains, all is well. I just cannot believe that we have been working for nearly one month. The time has flown."

Brains removed his spectacles and rubbed his tired eyes. "It's flown f-fast, Tin-Tin," he agreed. "Too fast." He replaced his glasses.

"You have been working too hard," she admonished.

"So have you," he retorted.

"We all have," Tin-Tin sighed. "When I think of all that we have still to do… And that we have only under two months to do it in..."

Brains looked down on the plans that were spread on a work bench. "It is worrying, isn't it? We've only just, er, finalised the design of the acoustic concussion generators. We've still got to build a p-prototype..."

"Test it..."

"M-Modify it..."

"Build three units..."

"As well as the lead missile for Th-Thunderbird One..."

"And build and design the booster rocket to deflect Arnie..."

"A-And the mechanics for the deployment of the b-booster..."

"And the mechanics for the deployment of the acoustic concussion generators from The Mole and Thunderbird Four." Tin-Tin sighed again and sank onto a stool. She rubbed her eyes; as tired as Brains'. "Do you think we can do it?"

Brains removed his spectacles and rubbed his reddened eyes again. "We don't have any ch-choice, do we?"

"No."

Brains pushed his glasses back onto his nose and straightened. "Then we can do it!" He picked up a list, which he peered at short-sightedly. "We need more materials. H-Has the supply plane arrived yet?"

Tin-Tin looked at her watch. "It should have. I'll go and see, shall I?"

Brains, already buried deep in his work, didn't reply.

Tin-Tin took this as a yes and hurried through the complex. She had another more personal reason why she wanted to see the mail plane's contents.

She found piles of parcels, pallet loads of goods, and a small bag of envelopes in the hangar. Gordon was standing in the middle of it all, reading. "Gordon?"

"Huh?" He looked up. "Oh… Tin-Tin."

"Have you got a letter, Gordon?" Tin-Tin, ignoring his distracted manner, started delving through the parcels.

He gestured with the document in his hand. "Papers I've got to sign for my lawyer." He indicated all the highlighted sections. "I'm only getting a divorce and I've got to sign enough papers to authorise the invasion of another country..." He noticed that she was still ferreting through the pile. "Are you expecting something?"

"Yes." Tin-Tin straightened. "Have you seen something addressed to me? It is probably a small box?"

"Oh!" Gordon retrieved something from his pocket. "Sorry, Honey. I was going to bring it up to you, but I was side..." Tin-Tin grabbed the parcel from his hands and ran for the exit. "...tracked..." He shrugged. "Must be something important." He shoved his letter into his pocket and started stacking the recently arrived goods onto a pallet truck.

-I-R-

-F-A-B-

"_Penny!"_

"Hello, Jeff. I thought it was high time I visited you."

Jeff indicated the chair next to him and closed the newspaper. _"Take a seat."_

"Thank you." Lady Penelope claimed the stool next to the hoverchair that Jeff was sitting in. She looked around the summerhouse. "I do so love it in here. The flowers are beautiful; although perhaps missing Kyrano's touch?"

Jeff grinned. _"He'd love to hear you say that."_ He looked about the garden as if he'd never taken the opportunity before. _"You're right though."_

"How have you been?" Lady Penelope enquired.

"_Me? I'm fine. How are you?"_

Lady Penelope gave a light laugh. "Oh, you know me. I just muddle along."

"_Muddle?"_ Jeff snorted a laugh. _"That's Creighton-Ward speak for: 'I'm in the middle of something daring and exciting and I'm likely to have my head blown off by a crazed spy at any moment.'"_

Lady Penelope took a moment to analyse what he'd said. _Creighton-Ward_ had sounded more like "gradenfor" and the rest of the sentence had been equally garbled. While she had a reasonable grasp of Jeff's speech's sounds, she hadn't spent enough time in his company over the last few years to be a totally confident in her interpretational abilities.

"_What's your latest project?"_ he asked.

"Now, Jeff," Lady Penelope admonished. "You know better than to ask me things like that. My work is totally hush-hush." _Especially from a subject's father-in-law._ "But 'The Firm' has kept me busy this last month." _Too busy to examine Marina's diaries in detail._

"_I wish you could tell me more. You would add some excitement to the life of an old man."_

"You are not old!"

"_Yes, I am. I'm old and decrepit."_

"Jeff Tracy! I will not listen to you talk this way!"

"_I'm only stating the facts, Penny."_

There was an element of truth in what he said, so Lady Penelope decided to drop the subject. "Are you enjoying being in control of a multi-national conglomerate again?"

She was delighted to see Jeff's face light up. _"I'd forgotten how exciting it could be. I've been out of the corporate world for too long."_

She indicated the newspaper. "Is this research, or relaxation?"

"_A bit of both,"_ he admitted. _"I notice they've stopped begging for International Rescue's help."_

"I don't know that that's taken any of the pressure off. I doubt that they will have taken the time to peruse media reports."

"_Have you been out to the island lately?"_

Lady Penelope shook her head and her blonde curls danced. "No. I decided that I should leave them free to concentrate on what needs to be done."

Jeff's smile faded. _"Which leads me onto another subject. Would you do me a favour, Penny?"_

"Of course, Jeff! You know you need only ask."

She was surprised to realise that he almost seemed reluctant to speak. _"You know how disabled I am..."_

"Yes?"

"_There is a procedure, an untried procedure, which may go some way to rectifying it."_

"An untried procedure?"

"_Yes. I've researched all I can about it, and I've decided that I'm going to try it."_

"Jeff? Are you sure that is wise?"

"_Maybe. Maybe not. That's why I'm telling you. I don't want my family to worry about me, so I wasn't going to mention it to anyone. But someone should know, someone I trust, in case something goes wrong. If that happened I want you to tell them that I underwent this procedure of my own free will. In fact I turned down the opportunity the first time it was presented to me, but things have made me change my mind."_

"What things?"

"_Work mainly. Things that I used to do so easily, like writing and talking on the phone, are now next to impossible. It's incredibly frustrating, Penny."_

"I'm sure that it is. And this, er, procedure..." Lady Penelope placed a gentle hand on his arm. "I take it there are no guarantees of success?"

"_None. But at least I'd give myself a chance of something closer to a normal life."_

"Is this the time to take such a risk?"

"_Is there a better time? They tell me I'll only need to take a week off work and there are people more than capable of taking over from me for that short a time. John need never know."_

"Don't you think he would rather know? Don't you think they all would?"

"_It would only add more stress to their already stressful lives."_

Lady Penelope could see his point. "When is the operation?"

"_I don't know. The quacks are still doing tests and finalising things. They haven't made the decision yet."_

Lady Penelope paused for a moment. "Why the change of heart?"

Jeff considered her question. _"I know there's not much that's good that can be said about it, but Doomsday has given me a new perspective on life. If John had suggested that I take over Tracy Industries without that cloud hanging over our heads, I would have dismissed the idea outright. But 'having' to take over has forced me to re-evaluate my life. And I realised that I was missing out on so much. I'd become mired in my own self pity."_

"Yes, you had," Lady Penelope agreed. "I'm surprised that the boys didn't take you in hand."

Jeff seemed taken aback by her forthrightness and he stared at her for a moment before continuing. _"They tried. Many times. John kept on inviting me to work functions. I don't know how many times an employee I've respected has been honoured for sterling service, and I've always been too ashamed to let them see me this way… Scott invited me to celebrate Stewie's achievements and I never went. If he hadn't brought the boy around here I would never have met him. The way things stand, Stewie's probably the closest I'll get to having a grandchild, and I missed out on that experience… I never went to any of Virgil's exhibitions, or Alan's races. I've never even seen Gordon's houseboat; before or after that woman got her hands on it."_

Lady Penelope remembered the horror that was the houseboat's décor and said nothing.

"_When the boys were young, I cursed every opportunity I missed in sharing their important moments; and now that I've got every opportunity I've been too scared to be a part of their lives. I've missed out on too much, Penny, and it's all been my fault, because I've been too ashamed to step beyond the boundaries of my home."_

"But is it necessary to take such a risk? You can push out those boundaries as you are."

"_No. This isn't me. Besides, I figure that it's because I became ill that International Rescue was terminated. Now that they're working to get it operational again, shouldn't I make the same effort?"_

"It's not exactly the same thing," Lady Penelope remarked. "May I read the literature on this procedure to reassure myself that you have made the right decision?"

"_Of course. I'll get Sara to give it to you before you leave."_

"Thank you…"

"_And I'd appreciate it if you'd promise me something."_

"You know me, Jeff. I'd do anything for you."

"_If this operation goes wrong and something bad happens... If I should die..."_ Jeff looked Lady Penelope in the eye. _"Don't let the boys give up on what they're doing. It's so much more important. I don't want any big commemoration ceremonies or memorial services. All I want is for them to forget about me and get International Rescue operational and to do their best to save the world. If they succeed, that'll be enough of a memorial for me."_

"But you are their father. I think you know as well as I do that they could never forget you."

"_That may be, but my life counts for nothing when placed alongside the billions that will perish in Doomsday if International Rescue doesn't succeed."_ Jeff placed his hand on hers. _"Don't let them give up, Penny. Please."_

Lady Penelope smiled. "I won't, Jeff, you can count on me."

"_Thank you." _Jeff straightened and appeared to steel himself for the upcoming challenges. _"The time for self-pity is over! Now it's time I took a stand and did something to improve my life!"_

Lady Penelope refrained from applauding his determination. "And I will support you every step of the way."

-F-A-B-

Parker, lounging in the kitchen, glanced out the window towards the couple in the summerhouse. Then he sipped the steaming mug of brown liquid. "This h-is h-a good cup o'char, Martha."

The cook giggled at his exaggerated Britishness, put on for the American's benefit. "Thank you."

He looked back out the window. "I see they're still yammerin'."

"Shouldn't we take something out to them?" Martha asked. "They've been talking a while."

"Nope," Parker responded. "They ain't ready yet."

"How can you tell?"

"I can read 'er like h-a book. When 'er Ladyship want's 'er cuppa, that's when she'll get it. And I'll know when that h-is." Parker tapped the side of his nose.

Martha giggled again at what she saw as a visual pun. "How?"

"The way she sits. The h-angle of 'er 'ead," Parker expanded. "Little things like that tell me when she wants to be h-alone." The truth was that Lady Penelope had sent a signal to his cuff buttons, which had changed from mauve to navy blue, as a warning that she had wanted privacy while she talked with Jeff Tracy; but Parker wasn't about to let the cook know that. He preferred to maintain the air of exclusive mystery. "That's the h-art o' bein' a good butler."

"More tea, Mr Parker?" Martha asked.

"Don' mind h-if I do."

Martha poured the tea. "Have you known Mr Tracy long?"

"Donkey's ears," he told her.

"Pardon?"

"Years 'n years. 'E's a good bloke. One h-of the best. So's 'is boys."

"Oh…" Martha put the kettle on to boil again. "I haven't seen any of them and I've been here for two and a half weeks."

Parker made a show of glancing out the window. "They've been busy." He straightened the cuffs of his jacket and fished the teabag from out of his mug.

Martha pursed her lips in disapproval. "So I've heard."

Parker noticed the change to her demeanour. "What 'ave you 'eard?"

Martha hesitated a moment. She didn't like gossiping. Well, she said she didn't like gossiping; she had no problems with listening to gossip. "That they've gone off to be playboys on this island somewhere."

She was somewhat disconcerted when Parker burst out laughing. "'Oo told you that? Them? Playboys?" He laughed again.

Uncomfortable at his reaction, Martha studied her mug. "That what I was told."

Parker sat forward. "Lemmee tell you somethin' about them Tracys h-and their h-island. 'Ave you seen photos o' h-it?"

"No."

"Well, just h-imagine a typiecal tropical paradise. Golden sands, palm trees, h-and blue lagoons. The forest h-is filled wiv brightly coloured buttaflies, h-and the parrots h-are so tame they'll h-eat h-out o' your 'and."

"Sounds beautiful."

"H-It h-is," Parker agreed. "Luverly! And the 'ouse, seven years h-ago, was the most comfortable h-and modern one you could 'ope for. H-And believe me, when you work h-and live h-in a mansion that's h-older than _your_ country," he pointed at Martha, "you get to h-appreciate a bit o' modernity."

"You live in a mansion?" Martha gasped; wide-eyed as she allowed herself to be sidetracked.

"Yep. An' I'm proud to do so. 'Er ladyship h-is the best. But still, when you get to my h-age, you start to h-appreciate a modern 'ome, like the Tracys had."

"You've been there?"

"Yep." Parker nodded. "Many times. H-And like I said, h-it's bee-u-ti-full. But h-it's not a place that a man 'oo can't walk properly could stay."

"You mean Mr Tracy?"

Parker nodded. "H-And 'is sons have gone there to lay ramps, put h-a boardwalk down to the beach, h-and h-install lifts so that 'e can move h-about."

"Couldn't they employ someone to do it for them?"

Parker laughed again. "Not them. They're 'appier doin' h-it themselves. They're not the sort to snap their fingers h-and h-expect to be waited h-on. H-And once they've got the villa sorted, they'll send for their h-old man h-and they'll see h-out the h-end o' the world together."

"But," Martha was trying to reconcile this new version of the Tracys with the old. "There's five of them, isn't there?"

"Yep."

"Then couldn't four of them do the work, while John stayed here and continued to run Tracy Industries?"

"They could, but h-if I know Mr Tracy, 'e told Mister John to go."

"But why? Now Mr Tracy's got this huge workload."

"H-And I'll bet you h-all the cakes h-in your h-oven that 'e's lovin' it, h-and they're both 'appy h-as Larry. You see Mister John's h-an h-astronomer…"

"What!"

"'E trained h-as a professional astronomer. Check h-out the library h-and you'll find a couple of books 'e's written. But these past few years, 'e's been stuck in the h-office h-and 'asn't h-even looked h-at the stars for a bit o' fun. Mr Tracy wanted him to 'ave a chance to h-enjoy 'is 'obby before the world h-ends... H-As a way of sayin' thank you for h-all 'e's done to keep the busyness going."

"So he sent him away?"

"H-In a manner of speakin', yeah."

"Oh..." Martha gazed out the window.

So did Parker, just in time to see his mistress sit back. He glanced at his buttons and noted that they were mauve again. "She's ready for 'er tea," he announced. "Betta get h-out there." He stood, poured the freshly boiled water into the teapot and waited a moment before swirling the liquid about. Then he picked up the tray. "I h-enjoyed the chat, Martha." _And puttin' you straight on them Tracys. _"Thanks for the cuppa." And with all the dignity that one would expect of a top class butler, he carried the tray out to the summerhouse.

_To be continued..._


	10. Chapter 10 - Secrets

**Chapter Ten: Secrets**

"Scott… Scott!"

Scott, high up on Thunderbird One's nose cone, his head buried inside the missile launching chamber, looked down. That was Alan's voice and he didn't sound like he was willing to be kept waiting.

"Scott! Where are you?!"

"Up here!"

Alan stared up at him from the hangar floor. "I'm coming up!" He set off; his movements, clear to a brother who'd had years of interpreting them, were decisive and stated that he had something on his mind; that he meant to say it; and that nobody or nothing would distract him from his purpose.

Not even Tin-Tin as she came running into the hangar. "Don't you dare, Alan Tra…" When the lift doors closed behind her husband, she looked up and saw her brother-in-law. "Don't listen to him, Scott!"

That, Scott reflected as he descended to meet Alan at the platform opposite Thunderbird One's cabin, was a pointless request. Growing up with four boisterous, sometimes overbearing, elder brothers, Alan had quickly learnt that if he wanted to be heard then he had to speak up. The result of this training meant that when Alan wanted to tell you something you usually didn't have much option other than to listen to him.

And it appeared that this time was to be no different as the lift doors opened, and Alan came storming out. He marched over to his eldest brother while the lift dropped back down to an impatient Tin-Tin. "She's not going, Scott."

This told Scott nothing. "What's not going where?"

"Tin-Tin. She's not coming with me to battle the asteroid."

Scott studied his kid brother. He was in the grip of some powerful, unknown emotion and Scott, who'd always prided himself on being able to read his brothers like four eclectic novels, had no idea what was wrong. "What?"

The lift doors slid open behind him as Alan repeated his demand. "Tin-Tin's not coming with me to battle Arnie!"

"Oh, yes I am, Alan Tracy!"

Alan spun on his heel. "No, you're not, Tin-Tin!"

"Stop being a chauvinist!"

"I'm not being a chauvinist! I'm being sensible!"

"Sensible?!"

"Yes! Sensible!"

Tin-Tin folded her arms in a huff, glowered at her husband, and then turned to face International Rescue's current commander. "Tell him I'm going, Scott!"

"No, you're no…!" Alan protested.

"Yes! I! Am!"

"No…!"

"Whoa! Hold it!" Scott held up his hands to arrest the argument. "What's going on here?"

"It's simple," Alan told him. "Tin-Tin's not leaving the planet. She's not coming with me to deflect Arnie."

"Alan…" Tin-Tin hissed. "I…"

She stopped talking when Scott held up his hand for silence. "Why not?"

"I've been thinking it over and it's just not safe."

"I think Tin-Tin's aware of that."

"I am!"

"And we can't spare anyone else," Scott reminded them. "We're all needed to negate Doomsday and that mission won't be underway until after you've left. Tin-Tin hasn't got the skills to take over from one of us so that he can go with you."

"I don't need anyone to go with me!" Alan protested. "In fact it would be better if I went alone. What if something goes wrong up there? No one's going to be available to rescue us. It's not like we can call on International Rescue."

"Alan…!" Tin-Tin began again, and was again stopped when Scott held up his hand.

"We're all going to be heading into danger," he reminded his brother. "And we're all going to be on our own. We're not going to be able to call on International Rescue either. What if something happened to Gordon? We couldn't rescue him; we've only got one Thunderbird Four…"

"Yes," Alan interrupted. "But what if something goes wrong with Thunderbird Three and, say, the rockets break down? If I could somehow get her moving in the right direction, then Newton's first law would mean I could still potentially make it home, but it would take much longer than if I was under motive power…"

Scott frowned, unable to follow his logic. "Right…"

"Assume that that happens, Scott. I'm only going to be able to carry a limited amount of food and water…"

"Yes…"

"And if Tin-Tin comes with me, that'll last half as long as if I'm on my own. If she's not there I'll survive twice as long and will potentially have a better chance of making it back to Earth."

Tin-Tin made a frustrated sound.

"But… Alan." Scott began patiently. When Alan was in this mood there was no point in treating him any other way. "If you go alone you will _be_ alone. It's not like it was when you were on duty on Thunderbird Five. You're going to be away for four months. At least two of those months you won't have any human contact."

Alan stuck out his jaw in defiance. "I can handle it."

"Are you sure?"

"It's going to be just as bad for John."

"But it's not exactly the same, is it?"

Alan was in a stubborn frame of mind. "Close enough."

"Alan," Scott persisted. "Being totally isolated from all human contact is not the same as what John will be dealing with, and it's not something you've dealt with before!"

"I've been alone for months before."

"But not _really_ alone. You've always been able to call us up and have a chat if you felt lonely. That's going to be impossible this time."

Alan threw back his shoulders. "I can handle it," he repeated. "Tin-Tin's not going, and that's final."

"I think Tin-Tin should have some say in that," Scott stated. "Tin-Tin?"

"I am going…" she began.

And was interrupted by her husband. "No, you'…"

Scott's arms were getting a workout today as his lifted his hands for silence again. "You've said your piece, Alan. It's Tin-Tin's turn to speak."

While the younger man fumed at being treated like a child, his wife turned to face the elder Tracy. "You've given the exact reasons why I should go. Why I am going! I'm not going to let Alan fly halfway across space alone in Thunderbird Three! Plus! If any of you three fail I'll have a better chance of survival on board Thunderbird Three than I would on the planet."

"Well, if she's going, then I'm not!"

Alan's jaw was jutting out and his shoulders were back, emphasising the determined glint in the younger man's eyes and Scott assessed that this was not a good development. "You can't be suggesting that Tin-Tin goes alone?"

"No. John can go with her in Thunderbird Three. I'll man Thunderbird Five."

Scott had to admit that this was a smart move on Alan's part. As close as she was to her brothers-in-law, Tin-Tin wanted to be with her husband and Scott decided that the logical thing to do was to back her up. "John's not fit enough for long-distance space travel yet."

"He will be in two months."

"He hasn't had the experience in Thunderbird Three that you have. She's your craft. And Thunderbird Five's his, not yours."

"I've spent nearly as long in Thunderbird Five as he has."

"Nearly, being the operative word. Not _exactly_ as long. Not _longer_. But _nearly_ as long. He knows her better than you. And don't forget that John's expertise is communications. That's what we'll need him to be concentrating on while Gordon, Virgil and I are laying the detonators. Wouldn't you rather have four months alone with Tin-Tin, than be completely isolated from all human contact?"

"No."

Tin-Tin uttered a strangled sound. "Don't you want me with you?"

"Of course I do, Honey, but it's just not practical; you know that." Alan stepped closer, took his wife's face in his hands and looked into her eyes. "Please, Tin-Tin," he whispered. "Don't fight me."

Tin-Tin's eyes locked with her husband's blue ones. Nothing was said between the couple, but Scott had the impression that they were communicating just the same. Their gaze was so intimate that he felt like a voyeur and, uncomfortable with the sensation, wondered if he should sneak into Thunderbird One's cabin to give them some privacy.

Then Tin-Tin looked down. "You are right, Alan." She nodded. "I should not go."

Surprised, Scott stared at her. "Huh?"

He was ignored. "Thank you," Alan said, and wrapped his arms about his wife, pulling her close. "I'm sorry."

"So am I."

Alan pushed back so he could see her face again. "But it's for the best? Yes?"

"Yes."

"Thank you," he repeated. Then he took a step backwards. "I… Uh… I've got things to do in Thunderbird Three… I'd better go do them."

Scott watched his youngest brother stride away. It was no longer the brisk walk of a man on a mission. Nor was it the attitude of someone who had just won an argument. It was almost as if Alan was upset that he'd triumphed.

And Scott was confused. As Tin-Tin turned to return to her own work he caught her arm. "Do you want me to talk to him? Maybe I can change his mind when he's cooled down?"

Tin-Tin shook her head. "No, Scott. This is the right thing to do."

"Are you sure? It sounds like madness to me. Four months alone in space!"

Tin-Tin straightened in an unconscious mimicking of her husband's earlier, stubborn attitude. "Alan knows what he is doing!"

"Well, I don't know what went on between the pair of you, but watching you two made me think that Virgil and I aren't the only ones with a supposed telepathic link."

"Have you considered that perhaps you and Virgil no longer have that link?" Tin-Tin asked. Without another word, she turned and walked away leaving Scott feeling even more confused.

He pulled himself together. He didn't have time for confusion. He had work to do. Ignoring the in-house intercom in favour of his watch he issued a blunt, succinct order. "John, Virgil, Gordon, Brains. Meeting in the study. Now!"

They assembled in the study, all keen to get back to work and curious as to why they'd been called away.

Scott came straight to the point. "Tin-Tin's not doing the mission with Alan."

As he'd expected his announcement was met with exclamations of dismay.

"You can't do that!" Gordon objected.

"It's not my idea, it's his. And Tin-Tin, for some unfathomable reason, is agreeing with him."

"But he'll be alone for at least four months," John protested.

"So will you," Scott reminded him.

"But I will be in full contact with Earth the entire time! And if anything happened to me there's at least a chance that you'd be able to get help to me. You could divert a moon shuttle or something, but Alan's going to be alone! Alone and helpless!"

"I know, I know. But this isn't my decision. It's theirs."

"Well, it's a stupid decision," Virgil told him.

"Do you think I don't know that? But Alan's in one of his moods." Alan's brothers made understanding noises, well aware of what their baby brother was like when he got into one of those 'moods'. "I didn't have a hope of changing his mind. Now I'm wondering if you guys have any suggestions what to do about it."

"You said that Tin-Tin's agreeing with him?" Gordon asked.

"Yes. She didn't at first. She was demanding that I order Alan to let her go with him. Then they…" Scott paused, remembering and still not understanding what he'd seen. "She just changed her mind."

"I-It is a, er, woman's prerogative," Brains offered.

"Yeah, but not when it involves sending her husband alone into a void for four months."

"Space isn't a void," John informed Scott. "It's filled with…"

"I don't care what it's filled with!" Scott snapped. "I just know that Alan's going to be in it alone. He said it's either that or else he mans Thunderbird Five and you can take Thunderbird Three."

"Uh-uh," John protested. "No way. I'm not experienced enough."

"That's what I said. I think he knew there was no way we'd allow that, which is why he suggested it. From what I can see our only options are to let Alan go alone, or else forget about that mission and hope the asteroid misses Earth."

"Either that, or we kidnap and tie Alan up until after Tin-Tin's dropped me off at Thunderbird Three," John offered.

"And then he'd take over and bring her right back to Earth again," Gordon amended.

"True."

"A-And she'd have to agree to that," Brains added, "which, if Scott's right, she probably would not do."

"True too."

There was silence as they all thought.

"There's no way any of us could take Tin-Tin's place," Virgil stated. "If we'd already laid a detonator we could; but we'll probably still be working on our craft and the Mole after Thunderbird Three's left."

"D-Do you want me to try talking to T-Tin-Tin?" Brains offered. "I could bring it up while we're, er, working."

"You could try," Scott conceded. "At least she might tell you why she agreed to this crazy plan."

"Do we try to change Alan's mind?" Gordon asked.

Scott nodded. "I think we should try. I don't like the idea of him being alone for all that time."

Virgil shook his head as if to clear it. "I still can't believe that Alan suggested it and that Tin-Tin agreed. It's madness!"

"That's what I said," Scott agreed. He sighed. "Well, unless someone comes up with a bright idea my only suggestion is that we try to change their minds... In the meantime, we'd better get back to work."

-I-R-

-F-A-B-

"_ B_," Lady Penelope read. "_D a a L_." She shook her head and continued reading the printout. "_Forgot D t. Irritable_."

"H-I got the word _angry_ 'ere. But that's h-all that's H-English."

Lady Penelope sighed and rubbed her eyes. "Can you make sense of any of this, Parker?"

"No, m'Lady," Parker looked at his mistress from over his spectacles. "H-I can't read h-all of h-it h-either. H-Is that a S or a h-eight?" He held out his photograph. "H-It's outta focus."

Lady Penelope held her magnifying glass over the letter. "I'm afraid our photographic skills weren't the best."

"We was h-in a 'urry," Parker reminded her.

"We were..." Lady Penelope put down her piece of paper. "But what we do know is that whatever Marina was writing, she wanted it kept secret. Secret enough that she's used a code, or shorthand, as well as the invisible ink."

Parker removed his glasses. "Supposin' h-it h-is a code, I guess that G stands for Gordon."

"That would be an excellent supposition," Lady Penelope agreed. "But what is 2? Does she mean the number two? Or is it representative of a homophone?"

"H-A what?"

"Two or more words that are spelt differently, but are pronounced the same. For instance does Marina mean the number _two_, the word _to_ with one O, or the word _too_ with two Os?"

"Too tricky."

"Indeed." Lady Penelope rifled through the pieces of paper that represented each cooled down page of Marina's notebooks. "There is a lot of repetition in these pages... With variations. Look at this one: _ L_. There's a _one_ instead of a _two_ and an _L_ instead of a _B_. This one says _G at D. R ampersand I at R_." Her finger followed the symbols _G D._ _R & I R._ "What does it mean!?"

"'Er and someone starting with R went somewhere while Mister Gordon was somewhere else?"

"Possibly. It is dated."

"What's the date?"

"Twelfth of March this year."

"Mister Alan's birthday? Would _D_ be _Dad's_? H-As h-in Mr Tracy's?"

"Jeff despised her calling him _Dad_, but he didn't stop her doing so for Gordon's sake," Lady Penelope recollected. "Alan's birthday was on a Sunday and a party was held at Jeff's. Marina did not attend... Much to everyone's relief."

Parker was looking at one of the other pages. "There's lots of _R_s. Do you think she's been pussyfootin' about with some fella with this h-initial behind Mister Gordon's back?" He looked up again. "Can't you run h-it through some kinda code-breaker h-at the shop?"

"I could, but The Firm frowns on employees using its equipment for personal business." Lady Penelope sat back. "I do miss working for Jeff Tracy."

"Me too, m'Lady. 'E was the best. H-I don't think that lot you work for now trust me."

Lady Penelope treated her assistant to a wry smile. "They checked out your background before they reemployed me," she told him. "They were not at all sure that letting the best safecracker in the world anywhere near their secrets was a good idea."

"Bloomin' cheek!" Parker exclaimed. "You trust me, don'tcha, m'Lady?"

"Implicitly."

"H-I woulda thought that would 'ave been good h-enough for them."

"It was... eventually." Lady Penelope regarded the papers again. "I refuse to believe that someone like Marina is capable of outwitting the both of us. We need some clue," she mused. "Some hint to help us break this code. Something to tell us who this _R_ is..."

"H-A pity we couldn't just ring Marina h-up and h-ask 'er."

"A pity indeed..." Lady Penelope sat up, a determined expression on her attractive face. "You have given me an idea, Parker."

"H-I 'ave?"

"You have. But I am afraid that my present masters will not approve."

"What h-are you goin' to do?"

"Something singularly distasteful. Come with me, Parker." Lady Penelope rose to her feet and led the way to her computer.

Parker followed obediently, wondering just what his mistress had in mind.

Lady Penelope inserted a pink, large-capacity external memory drive into the appropriate slot in the computer. "Now, be on your guard, Parker," she warned. "When I tell you to do so, I want you to remove that immediately and take it in FAB1 to somewhere where no one can find it. Do not wait for me and do not return until I summon you. If you do not hear from me get that to Alan, then lay low until such time as I am able to contact you"

Parker stared at her wide-eyed. "Jus' what h-are you going to do, m'Lady!?"

"The Firm and associated organisations record every telephone call made throughout Great Britain and beyond. There are strict dictates about how and when this information may be used, and eavesdropping on someone's phone calls to ease a friend's divorce does not qualify as an appropriate use of such information. I am confident that my interest will not go unnoticed, and that my masters will shut the transfer down and will pay me a visit in short time to remove all evidence that I have succeeded in downloading. I expect you to ensure that we do not lose this information."

Parker gave her a grave nod. "You can count on me, m'Lady."

"I know that, Parker, and that is because I trust you. Now... What is Marina's phone number?"

Parker thought they'd struck a snag. "I don't know h-it."

"No, me neither. However..." Lady Penelope retrieved a business card index off her desk and started flicking through it. "When Marina was trying to interest me in her interior decorating, er, 'skills', she gave me her card. With any luck I have not disposed of it. Ah!" She held a small card aloft.

"You-reeka, m'Lady?"

"Eureka, Parker."

Lady Penelope turned to the computer screen and Parker watched as she worked her way through a myriad of passwords and security screens. The deeper she went the more concerned he became. What if she was prevented from gaining access? What if her bosses cut her off and turned up before he had a chance to escape with the required information? What if they got all the information they needed and he corrupted it removing the drive from the computer?

"I'm in."

Lady Penelope's quiet words dragged Parker's attention back to what she was doing. Hundreds of files were being transferred from some dark, distant, omnipotent server to the small, innocuous memory drive. "H-Are you h-only copying 'er calls?"

"No. I shall copy all calls from their, er. 'land'line, as well as Gordon's mobile."

"Mister Gordon's?"

"I hope we shan't have to listen to them, but I do not want to leave any stones unturned. We shall only get one chance at this."

Parker looked at the numbers that were scrolling down the screen. "H'Is that Mister Gordon's?" He pointed to a number that frequently appeared in both the incoming and outgoing columns.

"No, that is not Gordon's." A twinkle appeared in Lady Penelope's eye. "Perhaps it belongs to our mysterious '_R_'?" She added the mystery caller to her download list.

"I 'ope so. I got h-an h-uneasy feeling about this."

"Shall we listen to one?" Lady Penelope enquired. "To satisfy our curiosity, should something happen to our recordings?"

Parker grinned. "Why not?"

"Strange is it not," Lady Penelope said easily as she selected one of Marina's calls to the unknown number. "I feel no qualms about listening to her messages, but I should hate to have to listen to one of Gordon's."

"I know what you me..."

"_Hello?"_

"_Rory!"_

"_Marina? What are you doing ringing me now?"_

"_Rory..."_ Marina repeated, and it sounded like a sob.

"_Marina? What's wrong?"_

"_I'm scared, Rory._

"_Scared?"_

Marina gave an audible gulp. _"He nearly hit me."_

"_He what...?!"_

That was a question that was echoing in Lady Penelope and Parker's heads. Marina couldn't be talking about Gordon Tracy... Could she?

"_He's just *sniff* got back from that research trip. *sniff* I'd done what you said, but it can't have worked..."_

Parker and Lady Penelope shared astonished glances.

"_He was already mad when he got in... *sniff* ...We argued... *sniff* ...He didn't want to sit down with a drink and talk. *gulp* He was getting wilder and wilder. He said that he should have listened to his family..."_

"_Now, Marina,"_ 'Rory' soothed. _"You know how his family feels."_

"_But then... then I said that he loved them more than me... *sniff* ... and... *gulp* he said that was true..."_

"_But you knew that. Don't tell me that's what's upset you..."_

"_No, no! That wasn't it! I said... I can't remember what it was I said, but he got really wild! His face was bright red and I thought he was going to have a stroke like his old man or something. But then... Then..."_ There was a choked sob.

"_Keep it together, Sweetheart. What happened then?"_

"_He was going to hit me, Rory! He grabbed me by the arm and he was going to punch me in the face!"_

"_What did you do?"_ 'Rory' was sounding suspiciously calm over this alarming bit of news.

"_Nothing! I was terrified. If he'd hit me..."_

"_But he didn't hit you?"_

"_N-no, but he was hurting my arm... Then something happened to him. He looked... I don't know, shocked. He just let go of me and walked away."_

"_Where's he gone?"_

"_I don't know. I just know that he's left. What'll I do, Rory? I don't want to be here when he gets back! Come and get me... Please!"_

"_Relax, Sweetheart. If you were to leave now you'd upset all our plans."_

"_I don't care about our plans!"_ Caught up in the conversation, Lady Penelope and Parker failed to notice that all the files had finished copying over. _"I'll get into my car and come around to your place!"_

"_Don't do that!" _Rory demanded. _"There's no need. You know what to do to get him feeling good again."_

"_But what if it doesn't work? What if he hits me?"_

"_Look on the bright side. He hits you and you go straight around to the police and submit a full report. A few gory photos and there'd be no way that any hotshot lawyer would be able to prevent you from getting a huge alimony. A few tears in the witness box and the judge will be putty in your hands and hubby's money will be in our pocket. Probably his old man would be willing to pay just to make you go away quietly with no unseemly publicity. And then you and I are on easy street for the rest of our lives. And if we ever need a little more cash, a casual reminder of the family disgrace would be enough to get someone to cough up more."_

"_But I've felt his arms, Rory, and he's solid muscle! If he hits me he might break my nose or..."_

"_There's no gain without pain, Sweetheart..."_

"Nice sort, ain't 'e," Parker muttered.

"Indeed," Lady Penelope agreed and then snapped to attention when the computer beeped and then crashed. "Go, Parker!"

Parker didn't need to be told twice. He pulled the pink memory drive out of the computer and ran through the Creighton-Ward mansion. Having made sure that the drive was secure, he left the grounds at speed in the pink Rolls Royce.

It was two minutes later that five cars representing Lady Penelope's employer sped up her driveway and stopped in a shower of gravel outside the front door of her ancestral home. The doors opened and 20 powerfully-set men got out. Four peeled off towards the garage, while the remainder ran up the steps and, without bothering to knock, barged through the front door, which was (thanks to Lady Penelope's foresight) ajar.

Looking calm, composed, and as if there was nothing worrisome about 16 large, heavily-armed men charging into her home, they found Lady Penelope sitting casually in her lounge, a small table holding a silver teapot and exquisite china at her elbow. "Visitors. How delightful. Would anyone care for tea?" She indicated the tea set. "Oh, dear, I do believe that I am short one or two cups. Would you mind giving the bell pull a gentle tug?" She indicated an ancient tassel. "But I would appreciate it if you did not pull too hard. It is rather old and fragile."

A radio crackled. "Car's gone."

The one who appeared to the group's leader responded. "You have a description. Go get it!"

Lady Penelope sat up straight and looked at him in interest. "Do you have a miscreant in your sights, Edward?"

"Yeah," Edward sneered. "Your butler, _m'Lady_."

The way he'd said _m'Lady_ rang alarm bells in Lady Penelope's mind. While she had to admit that he was effective in what he did, Edward's methods did not always meet with her approval. Despite her concerns she remained calm and in control. "Parker? Has he been taking the roses from The Firm's flowerbed for his buttonhole again? I did warn him about that last time..."

"This is nothing to do with flowers and you know it, Penelope!" Edward turned to one of his associates. "Get her computer and find all the storage media in the house."

Lady Penelope had risen to her feet; her eyes aflame. "You are not a friend of mine, Edward Banks! You are not even a close acquaintance! Do not even think that I regard you as a respected colleague! My title is _Lady_ Penelope, and I will not respond to anything less." She relaxed back into her chair, seeming to be more concerned at the breakdown in aristocratic protocol than in the computer equipment being carried through her front door.

Edward was unfazed by her concerns. "I am under orders that you are to accompany us back to headquarters, Pene..." Lady Penelope glared at him and something in her stare compelled him to modify his tone. "Lady Penelope."

Lady Penelope poured herself a cup of tea. "I answer to no one but Commander Foveaux. If he wishes me to return to headquarters, he can summon me personally. In the meantime..." she held out the cup. "Would you care for tea?"

One of Edward's underlings entered the lounge. "She's made a copy, Edward, but we can't find it."

"The butler must have it. Tell Floyd he's not to let him get away." The underling got on the radio.

Lady Penelope sipped her tea.

Edward took three steps until he was at her side; towering over her. "You've been downloading telephone recordings without authorisation," he accused.

"Yes. That is right."

Edward had opened his mouth in preparation to intimidate her some more when he realised that she'd actually agreed with him. "Why?"

"Oh," Lady Penelope gave an airy wave of her hand. "You know how it is. I was doing a favour for the friend of a friend of a friend." She beamed up at Edward. "They say that no good deed goes unpunished."

"Who is the friend?"

"I promised my friend complete anonymity and I shall not betray their confidence."

"Even though you have broken the law and could be charged with that offence?"

"As the world is rumoured to be ending shortly, I did not think that would matter."

Edward placed his hand on the arm of her chair and leant close. "You had better be more forthcoming than you are, _Lady _Penelope, or you'll be sorry."

Lady Penelope gave a slight grimace. "Would you care for a peppermint, dear boy? I'm sure there are some in that drawer over there."

"I do not want a peppermint!"

"It will give you something to do while we wait for Commander Foveaux… and save us all from your halitosis."

One of the minions snickered and Edward turned on him with a glare. A hasty mask of innocence was dropped over the man's face.

Edward's phone rang. "Yes, Commander Foveaux… We have her… She refuses to obey my orders… She says she will only obey you… Very well, _Sir_." He gave the phone to Lady Penelope.

"Briney! How wonderful to hear from you," Lady Penelope exclaimed. "How _are_ you? I understand that you would like a word with me."

"Penelope," Commander Foveaux's voice barked, "I gave Edward instructions that he was to bring you back to headquarters."

"He did mention that, but I am in the middle of my afternoon tea. It doesn't do to rush these things. Now tell me; how is your dear Ma-ma?"

"Penelope, you know that I know you better than that. And we both know that you are stalling. I order you to put down your cup, pick up your bag, and proceed with Edward back here to the headquarters!"

"Of course, dear Briney, nothing would please me more," Lady Penelope cooed. "Now, I shall give you back to Edward and he can finalise arrangements."

"And, Penelope…"

"Yes, Briney?"

"No tricks. I don't want to hear that you've knocked Edward out with a gas pellet and left him naked in a ditch while you made off in his car wearing his clothes."

"I can assure you that such an idea never crossed my mind." Lady Penelope eyed up Edward. "They are not my style. See you soon, Briney." She handed the phone back to Edward. "I am just going to get my bag," she announced.

To her observers on the trip to the headquarters, she seemed cool, calm and collected. But beneath her assured countenance her mind was whirling. Had she made a rare mistake? She'd let the urgency that the entire population of the planet was feeling cloud her judgement. She should have left hacking into The Firm's database as a last resort, when she was desperate for information.

But what was done was done. Had Parker managed to get away? Was the information she'd retrieved secure? Would it tell them anything more? What exactly had been Marina's and 'Rory's' plans?

She was shown into Commander Foveaux's office and, much to her secret relief, they were left alone.

"Penelope," Commander Foveaux sighed. "What am I going to do with you?"

"I don't know, Briney," she responded. "What?"

"Why did you do it? You know that if the general public got wind that our agents were listening to private individuals' telephone conversations, and not only the conversations of British nationals, but the conversations of citizens of a friendly state, the civil libertarians would be up in arms, political hacks would get involved, and our activities would be severely curtailed!"

Lady Penelope crossed her shapely legs. "I did consider that, but I am only helping out a friend."

"Which friend?"

"A good friend."

"One of those phone numbers you downloaded belongs to your friend Gordon Tracy! Is he your 'good friend'?"

"Gordon?" Lady Penelope pretended to be surprised. "I thought I recognised the number, but I tend to call his father more often than I do him. Have you ever met his wife? Frightful woman."

"Gordon Tracy is getting divorced from his wife. Is that why you were trying to listen to her calls? To help him?"

"Is Gordon getting divorced?" Lady Penelope clasped her hands together in delight. "Oh, that is wonderful news! Jeff will be so pleased!"

Commander Foveaux repeated his question. "Is that why you were trying to listen in on those calls?!"

"My friend gave me four numbers and requested that I get recordings of them all. So that is what I did."

"You broke British law and an international treaty because a _friend_ requested you to?!" Commander Foveaux was starting to bristle like a shaving brush.

"My friend saved my life once. And, since Doomsday is due to occur in just over three months, and I do not have much time remaining in which to repay the debt of honour, I agreed."

"Penelope…" Commander Foveaux sighed. "You are the best agent we've got, but you're a law unto yourself. What am I going to do with you…?" His desk intercom rang. "Yes?!"

Lady Penelope recognised Edward Bank's smarmy voice. He sounded pleased with himself. "We have the butler… and the recording."

Lady Penelope's heart sank. This wasn't the end of the world (that was due in three months time), but it was going to make her task harder.

"Good," Commander Foveaux was saying. "Bring him in."

The door opened. "'Ere! Take h-it h-easy! You'll crease me uniform!" Parker was thrust inside the room, where he stood dusting down his clothes and muttering to himself. "That's no way to treat your h-elders h-and betters."

"Parker."

"Oh!" Parker snapped to attention. "'Ello, m'Lady."

Edward was looking particularly smug and Lady Penelope saw a pink object in his hand. "We got the recording," he said.

"Good work, Banks," Commander Foveaux congratulated him.

Edward looked even more smug. "Thank you, Sir." He smirked at Lady Penelope.

"H-I'm sorry, ma'am," Parker apologised. "They caught me h-at the border." He looked woebegone at his failure.

"That is all right, Parker."

"Border?" Commander Foveaux looked surprised. "Folkestone?"

"Ah, no…" Edward gave an embarrassed cough. "Calais. He made it through the Channel Tunnel before we were able to alert the authorities."

Parker snickered. "H-I can outdrive h-a young whippersnapper like you h-any time. You ain't 'ad my training."

"We know all about your 'training', Parker," Commander Foveaux reminded him.

"An' your h-outfit's been glad of h-it more than once."

Edward coughed again. "We brought him back here in a helijet. The car is being towed."

Lady Penelope appeared horrified. "I do hope your men are being careful with my Rolls Royce! It is a family heirloom!"

"They will be," Commander Foveaux reassured her. "Now, Lady Penelope, consider this an official reprimand. I will not put this on your record, because up till now you have given us exemplary service, but I will warn you that a reoccurrence of such an indiscretion will result in more severe punishment."

Lady Penelope bowed her head as though suitably chastened. "I understand, Commander Foveaux, and I would like to thank you for your understanding." She looked up. "Will I have my Rolls Royce returned to me?"

"Yes. Banks will see to that." Edward did not look impressed at his boss's assurances. "Now don't let me catch you back here under similar circumstances again!"

"You have my word, Briney," Lady Penelope promised. "However I do have a slight problem."

Commander Foveaux made a sound of annoyance. "What's that?"

"I have no transport, since my car has been confiscated. Perhaps the delightful Edward would agree to chauffeur Parker and myself home."

Parker had to work hard to suppress a gleeful chuckle when Commander Foveaux agreed.

Not another word was said about the incident on the ride home, but Lady Penelope kept up a gay repartee with Edward, who responded in unintelligible grunts.

It wasn't until Lady Penelope was relaxing back in a chair in the privacy of her lounge, and had taken her first sip of newly brewed tea, that she broached the subject. "Thank you for all you did, Parker."

"That's h-all right, m'Lady."

"I will admit that I erred badly. Things haven't quite turned out as I'd planned, but as least we can say that we are further forward." She took another reflective sip. "But I do so wish that we could have heard more. That telephone conversation opens up more questions than answers. Still… At least we can re-examine Marina's notebooks with the near certainty that most of the 'R's in there stand for 'Rory'."

"Indeed, m'Lady. H-And if that don't help us we can h-always listen to some more."

"No, I'm afraid…" Something about the glint in his eye captured Lady Penelope's interest. "Do you have something to tell me, Parker?"

"Yes, m'Lady. H-I managed to make h-a copy."

"You did! How simply wonderful! Where is it?"

"H-I took your h-advice. H-I figured that The Firm would be h'even less 'appy at trawlin' through 'is Majesty's mail than they would be h-at you h-eavesdropping on some Yanks, so I posted h-it to Mister Alan."

"Wonderful, Parker. That does mean that we shall have to wait until Alan is able to return it to us, which will take time; but at least all is not lost."

"H-I don't think that we'll 'ave to wait that long."

"Parker! Whatever do you mean?"

"H-I made two copies."

"Two? And where is the second?"

"H-As part of the local district coppers' good neighbour h-initiatives, h-and since Lady Morecombe h-is h-away at present; I 'ave been takin' the liberty of h-ensurin' that 'er premises is secure." Parker tutted his disapproval. "She should take more care. 'Er system ain't up to scratch. H-A Boy Scout could break h-in with 'is pocket knife and h-access 'er safe. You should 'ave a word with 'er h-about h-it, m'Lady."

"I will indeed, Parker. But perhaps I should have some evidence of this, er, lackadaisical approach of dear Moira's. Would you be able to oblige me, Parker?"

Parker bowed. "H-It would be a pleasure, h-and a doddle, Madam…"

_To be continued…_


End file.
